Red England
by Punmaster Extrordinaire
Summary: America is shocked when England appears in that red jumpsuit - and finds himself unwillingly thinking back on his history with the terrifying man he knows as Red England. Slight UK/US, yay for historical awesomeness!
1. Chapter 1

**Hi all, here's the first chapter of my new fic about, well, you'll see. Here's a hint-it's got plenty of a certain color in it! :D**

**If it isn't obvious, this is set during _Paint it, White_. After all the countries attempt to take on the alien invaders on their own and fail gloriously, the next scene has them all turning up in a run-down house and deciding to work together after all. Whereas the previous scenes all had them in various suits or military uniforms, they suddenly appear quite inexplicably in bizarre colored jumpsuit things. I was just thinking about how that might have come about and then I noticed how England was wearing what looked like a red race-car driver outfit...and**** this twisted little historical fic was born. Huzzah for history writing the plot! And huzzah for blatant color symbolism!**

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><p>Waiting in the new, temporary U.N. headquarters, America chortled to himself as Italy bounced into the room in his new powder-blue outfit. America had no idea out of what pocket universe Japan had drawn those colored jumpsuits, and didn't much care. At the mere sight of the rainbow rack of clothes America had begun helping Japan in arguing for them all to choose a color and get with the program.<p>

"C'mon guys, it'll foster cooperation and unity and awesome stuff like that! If we're gonna fight those aliens, looking like a team will help make us act like a team!"

They had all agreed eventually under an onslaught of America's chatter and Japan's cunning arguments, with the usual sighs and eye rolls and France's grumbling about the proper style of clothing for alien-fighting. Even boring old England and his big grouchy eyebrows agreed. Come to think of it, England had been oddly...easy to persuade. America hadn't even needed to break out the puppy eyes. Wait…maybe the end of the world had finally made England see how magnificent his plans were! Awesome!

To absolutely no one's surprise, as the hero America had proclaimed his clothing independence and wore his brown bomber jacket, France appeared in delicate pink with a shower of rose petals, and Germany strode in wearing dull militaristic green. And…how had China managed to make the sleeves of his orange jumpsuit longer, anyway? America shook off the thought—he probably had a portable Chinatown to do it for him or something—and exchanged an ecstatic look with Japan. Finally their mutual dream of seeing the former Axis and Allies in Power Ranger-esque ensembles was almost complete! They were just missing…yes, England. America rubbed his hands together, grinning inanely and already thinking of a theme song for the team. This was going to be so _sweet!_

But then England swaggered in, and all the usual petty bickering and marginally non-lethal fighting abruptly came to a stop. Because England was wearing red.

Everyone froze in shock for a long moment, and the tense silence built and built until it shattered as the room burst into noise and movement. As he stared at the apparition now leaning against the doorjamb, America distantly observed the other countries' reactions.

Italy had begun babbling incoherently and clinging to Germany, whose countenance—though stolid as ever—now looked pale and tight. Wrapped in old memories, China began muttering angrily about opium and stalked away with taut fists. For the first time in recorded memory Japan actually blinked and even Russia's sunny sunflower smile flickered for the briefest moment. And France…France screamed girlishly, leapt behind America, and most shocking of all _did not grope him whatsoever_. Somewhere in the back of America's cloudy mind he decided it was a good thing Spain wasn't here, or there'd be weeping and battleaxes for sure. America didn't know what he himself had looked like at the sight of England in the red jumpsuit, but he did know that his heart rate had jumped and his throat was uncomfortably dry.

England in red was cold pride and a vicious sneer over a razor cutlass. Red was plunder and rapine and crazed laughter over a sinking Armada. Red had conquered a fifth of the world's population and a fourth of the landmass. Red was the long cloak of the British Empire sweeping into the treaty rooms of surrendering enemies and subjugated colonies. Red was the uniform of Britannia, dripping with blood.

Memories began streaming through America's head, swift and tumbling, swirling and falling through his mind.

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><p><strong>I suppose France would have more memories than anyone else of Red England, wouldn't he? Poor man, he never expected to see that monster again. Yes, I <em>did<em> just say poor France. *hides***


	2. Chapter 2

**And so we get to the first of our flashbacks! I love little!America, he's just so stinkin' _cute_. England obviously feels the same way...**

**Oh, and I admit, I _did_ steal the name of England's ship from Mithrigil and Puella Nerdii's US/UK fics. It was just so perfect for the kind of person England is. In recompense, y'all should mosey on down to read their very excellent work (much much better than mine) at http(:)/mithrigil(.)livejournal(.)com/425100(.)html  
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><p><em>Jamestown, Virginia, 1640<em>

_America laughs as he runs down to the docks, breaking into a half-dozen jumbled songs as his ecstatic mind leaps from thought to thought. For there is a ship pulling into the harbor, and he can just feel England on it! Racing onto the pier, he bounces in uncontainable joy as the ship inches closer. _

_England always meets America at their house whenever he comes back from Europe. America isn't supposed to come down to the dock since silly England thinks he'll get in trouble for some reason. And normally America tries really hard to be good and do what England says—sometimes for ten whole minutes!—but this morning he woke up with the oddest, most unshakeable feeling that England was nearby, almost on his soil. So he ran down to the harbor and just like that, here was England's ship, the _Faerie Queene_, approaching the shore! _

_As the ship nears America barely resists the urge to start yelling for England, as it's "unbecoming of a young gentleman," whatever that means. But he's just so happy. It's been months and months since England has visited, far too long for the little boy. His big brother is a very busy man, always off doing things that England refuses to explain other than the annoying "You'll understand when you're older." Sometimes England comes back with his arm in a sling or winces when America hugs him enthusiastically. Sometimes he doesn't come back for so long America fears he never will._

_America tries to be patient when he's gone, to be a strong young colony with a stiff upper lip as England says, but his big words and ready smile always begin to flicker as night approaches. He never had problems when he lived and slept on his own in the wilderness, but these days the nights are bad without England. On the nights it storms, the wind screams and thunder shakes the house into a terrible moaning that chills America no matter how many blankets he piles on his bed. He is sure _that_ is the sound the dead make, and all through those nights he feels the cold fingers of ghosts plucking at the edges of his quilt as he shivers and cries into the darkness. Only when England is home can he sleep through the storms, safe and warm and cradled gently through the night, the sound of England's soft breathing creating a barrier from the raging elements and clutching ghosts._

_But now England is back, for at least a month! America does a little happy dance as the ship creeps slowly closer. He peers at the men running around on deck, squinting a little. Should they be that blurry? At any rate, he can't seem to find England anywhere. _

_The red-cloaked captain with the broad crimson hat is striding around with his back to the growing crowd on land, bawling orders at the seamen. One of the men doesn't move fast enough for his satisfaction, it seems, and the captain moves like a snake to cuff him smartly in the back of the head. The man's voice has got the same accent as England, but his tone is harsh and commanding and absolutely frightening as he roars at the sailors with words America has never heard before. He's got a gift for languages and is already a nation of many peoples but these biting words are unknown, dangerous-sounding, and intriguing. He files them away to ask England about later. _

_Still England's nowhere to be seen, and America begins to fear his strange new sense had been wrong—but no, the presence of England feels even closer than before—and a thought freezes him in place: what if England is hurt or sick below deck? His heart twists painfully in his chest at the thought. Fists now clenched into tiny, white knuckled balls, mouth dry, he waits. _

_Ropes are tossed and secured and a gangplank is laid from the pier to the _Queene_. The captain is tall and broad and brimming with brutal power and America really doesn't want to face him but he'd know better than anyone what has happened to England. What if…what if there'd been a mutiny and this terrifying man had taken over? What if England had been hurt and even now might be- might be- no, America refuses to consider it. _

_England always protects America, and it is time to repay him. For once _America_ will help England, be his (what's the word from England's stories? ah yes) be his_hero_ and rescue him from the clutches of this scarlet-shrouded fiend. He squares his tiny shoulders and walks up behind the man, hands shaking but chin firm. The man's even taller up close, towering and looming and—if America wants to be honest—scarier even than ghosts, and America is certain he can see a darkness writhing around him like the grasping hand of death._

"_E-Excuse me, sir." His voice comes out as weak as his brother's. The captain doesn't seem to hear him. America swallows hard. He _has_ to do this, has to face this man to save England! England's hero would stand brave and strong and punch this man in the gut if he had to. _

_He tugs firmly at the cloak and tries again. "EXCUSE ME, SIR, BUT DO YOU HAVE ENG—er, AN ARTHUR KIRKLAND ABOARD?" America winces as the echoes fade away. He always forgets his physical and vocal strength when he's agitated._

_Abruptly the captain spins on his heel to face him, and a startled America jumps back, a handful of the thick red cloth tearing off in his grip. He stares at the face more familiar than his own twisted into a perversion of its gentle self, scowling brows over hard jade eyes, a sneering frown carved deep into a tight granite visage. This is England's face…but this terrifying stranger is _not_ his big brother. _

_America's petrified gaze is trapped on those cruel eyes for what seems like an eternity, terror making his thoughts churn and flail as though swimming through molasses. But suddenly the red cloak is pooled on the ground, the hat falling to join it, and his England stands there with eyes like warm blankets and cool mint with his hands outstretched for a hug. _

"_America, what have I told you about coming down to the docks, it's dangerous here!" he scolds, but his smile betrays him. "You've certainly grown since I was last here. We're going to need to cut your hair and let out your hems—have you been eating your vegetables and doing your chores?_

"_Are you quite all right, America?" America is still reeling with the revelation and finds himself unable to utter a word._

"_Ah, did I scare you, little one? I'm sorry. When I'm not with you I have to pretend to be very scary and commanding or the men won't obey me. And if that happens then I won't be able to kick the blasted frog's pasty ar—rear end, and we don't want that to happen, do we?"_

_The little boy nods, tentatively. "It's just pretend? And- and- I wasn't scared. I'm never scared."_

"_Most certainly on all counts_,_ America. Now do I get my hug or not?"_

_America beams widely and flings himself into England's arms, tells him all about the things that had happened when he was gone, all the butterflies he had nearly caught and the bunnies he chased, the bear that helped him down from the tree when he got stuck "What did I tell you about climbing trees when I'm not there, America? You could have been injured!" and how _of course_ he did his chores._

"_But how did you know my ship was arriving today? Don't tell me you waited at every ship that arrived in the harbor, that's just ador—dangerous."_

"_Oh yeah, England! This morning I woke up (and made my bed of course) I had the strangest feeling that you were nearby. And I was right!"_

_America isn't sure, but he thinks England looks a little sad as he speaks. "That means you really are growing up, America. That's your nation-sense developing. Soon enough you will be able to sense all sorts of things about your country and other nations." He gently brushes some of the hair out of America's eyes, his own pensive and distant for a moment. "My apologies, what were you telling me?"_

_America opens his mouth to tell him about what he thought of the terrifying England in the red cloak and hat, but for some reason decides not to tell him. The whole episode just feels kind of embarrassing now._

_Instead he keeps his plans to be England's hero to himself. Imagine, little America saving England! It seems almost ridiculous now that he's calmed down. If he tells England his brother will just chuckle and ruffle his hair, like he thinks America isn't serious. He'd better wait until he's as big and strong as England to rescue him. Yes._

~o0O0o~_  
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England did not let America see him in his "work clothes" for a long time after that. And when he did again America began to see them as a comfort, almost, because the red was there to protect him and his people. For reasons he wasn't sure he understood at the time he kept the little bit of red torn from England's uniform, though, hid it when England fussily began looking for it to repair the tear. _Never forget,_ it said whenever he looked at it. _Never forget that England is not always who you think he is._

He still had it today, pressed into a picture frame for safekeeping and kept in his storage room. The dye should have faded centuries ago, yet it remained as vibrant and menacing as it had that day on the docks. And though he had been sure he hadn't forgotten, had never forgotten, the sight of Red England before him yet again floored him nonetheless.


	3. Chapter 3

**Here's where things get a little squicky, m'dears. Red!England is not a man of tea and crumpets, after all, and empires don't go around conquering themselves.  
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><p><em>The North American Theater of the Seven Year's War: The French and Indian War, 1754<em>

_England's green eyes gleam with savage glee as he urges his Redcoats forward against France and the native Nations, roaring for America and his men to "Charge already, you bleeding bastards!" The long scarlet cloak is thrown back over his red-uniformed shoulders as he laughs merrily, blood sliding slickly off his bayonet before it is thrust into yet another poor soldier. England glides gracefully over the broken bodies beneath his feet, darting smoothly to delicately cut throats, disembowel, and dismember enemy after enemy. _

_It's revolting. It's beautiful. And it's absolutely terrifying._

_This is the first fight England's allowed America himself to join, even a little bit. England didn't much like the idea, but America bothered him until he agreed. It's America's first real war, his opportunity to show the world what kind of mighty nation he will become. And yet America, despite his desperate need to prove himself, finds himself instead hanging back to stare, hands cold and sweaty on his own musket. He has never before seen England in action and now cannot look away._

_England's breeches had been purest white, once. Just this morning America had brought them back from the laundresses, starched and bleached to the cleanest white in accordance with England's persnickety particularities. But now with every roar of a musket and flash of steel the white is splashed with thick red gore. It would match his coat and cloak nicely, America thinks through a touch of nausea, if they weren't now so soaked with blood themselves that the red had turned black._

_England's peal of laughter echoes over the battlefield again—how does he even do that over the sound of war?—and America wonders, in a clinical sort of way, if this is his general I'm-killing-people-and-enjoying-it laugh, or if this is a special one just for killing Frenchmen. _

_As England wades through another ten men with a few quick movements and a congratulatory bow to himself, America speculates on how much Viking berserker blood England has in him from the raids and settlements from the Nordics centuries back._

_England suddenly seems to see something he wants and alters his path of carnage sharply. America squints to see an enormous hat with so many feathers it looks like a goose had to be shaved to get the requisite amount. America adds this point to the owner's flowing golden hair and flair for feeling up confused Englishmen before killing them with a dramatic flair. This…would have to be France, then. Huh. Frankly, he doesn't seem worth all the ranting England spends on him. England's getting closer, almost absentmindedly slaughtering Frenchmen as he walks, his mantle draping soddenly behind him._

_America figures if there's going to be some sort of confrontation he, as an official participant, needs to be present, and runs into the fray, dodging stray knives and men locked in combat. Here on the battlefield, the stink of blood and death and voided bowels is overwhelming in the midday sun, and it takes a lot to not shame himself by vomiting. _

_He had done that earlier when the battle began, and England, who hadn't yet sallied forth, had held him and rocked him back and forth like he used to when he hid in England's bed for fear of ghosts, whispering soothing nonsense and singing old lullabies. America hated himself afterward for the moment of un-nationly weakness. He is a grown man now, dammit, and he can't let England or anyone else think him anything but strong. After America had calmed down, England had smiled fondly at him and ruffled his hair in the way England _knows_ he hates. England had then put on his battle-ready reds, picked up his musket, and swept out of the tent without a backwards glance._

_Panting yet simultaneously refusing to breathe the foul air, he reaches England just as the older nation begins the opening volley of insults against his age-old enemy, swishing his weapon in preparation. _

"_Now, frog, why are you still here getting your oh-so-elegant uniform dirty in the mud? Usually you retreat long before now. Don't you have better things and/or people to do?" He smirks at the implications._

"_Because as much as I loathe getting your filthy English blood on my new hat, you have something I wouldn't mind adding to my jeweled crown. Or bed. Ah, there he is now." France's smile is predatory, his eyes appraising. "My, my, how you have grown, little America. So tall and…robust."_

_ Affecting an unconcerned air, England carefully picks what looks like someone's ear off of his shoulder and throws it away with an elegant flick of the wrist. America resists the urge to retch at the actions of both men. His eyes meet another's. When had Canada gotten here? And why is he rolling his eyes?_

_ England's voice comes out a low, growling purr. "Although it truly pains me to deny you anything, my darling France, I'm afraid that America is mine and will continue to be so for a long, long time. My _deepest_ regrets and _humblest_ apologies."_

_ France sighs melodramatically, a hand to his forehead. "__Désolé__! He may be yours now, but who can say about the future? Let's find out, shall we?"_

_ Growing a bit irritated, America cuts in. "Hey, freaky European guys? I'm kind of right here. Standing in front of you."_

_England keeps talking as though he can't hear him. "Well, Francey-pants, you can certainly try. But we both know how it's going to turn out. And in case your pathetic, wine-addled little mind has problems figuring _that_ out, let me tell you. It'll end up with you on the ground, my sword in your back, and your colonies—including your beloved Canada here—living under the just rule of the British Empire." He smiles, shining eyes wide and blank and crazed, and it sends ice running down America's back. _

_ What a fool he is, to think England is at his most terrifying when he's killing people._

~o0O0o~_  
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After the war, America's thoughts turned far too often to what he saw that day and in the fighting-filled years after. Who was the real England? Could that monster on the battlefield be trusted for anything?

America began to see what he thought were glimmers of that man in everyday dealings with England, a hard line of the jaw, the flash of an eye. When England stood close in that weird way Europeans had, America had to resist the instinct to back away.

America could not think of England's words to France about keeping America with him without an unpleasant feeling in the pit of his stomach, which was _wrong_, America should be glad his big brother wants to stay with him. When he was younger he would have loved to hear that every day. But the way England said the words had been…not right. The way he had said "mine" was as though America was property, not a brother, like he didn't have a say in the matter, like he wasn't even there right in front of him.

It didn't help that in the last few years he'd begun to feel a sort of burning itch growing in him, a roiling irritation that only seemed to be appeased when he did something England didn't want.

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><p><strong>Ah, France. You know I love you! N-no, not in that way! Get away from me! STOP LAUGHING LIKE THAT!<br>**

**_honhonhonhonhon_  
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**I don't know about you guys, but I wish I had a killing-Frenchmen laugh.**

**And I'm sorry about the France/Frankly pun-I couldn't help it****! It's in my name, I warned you-_stop throwing those!_**

**I love battlecrazedandsnarky!England, innuendo-ing!France, and worldweary!Canada. America's grossing out and thinking it's all serious and Canada's just there rolling his eyes**

**A few historical notes:**

**We hear a lot (well I do) about the Viking raids on the British Isles, but not so much about how Norsemen would also settle the land. In fact, they had lots of influence on English-and therefore American-culture, especially linguistic influence. For a very simple example, several of the days of the week are named after Norse gods: Woden's-day (Odin), Thor's-day, and Frey's-day**. **Add the Viking settlers to the earlier waves of Celts, Angles, Saxons, the Norman Invasion, the Romans, and all sorts of crazy people, and you end up with a big mess on two small islands. No wonder England and his brothers fight all the time! Culturally the peoples of the British Isles were very diverse. If you want to learn more about this, I'd advise reading the very excellent _My Country Still_ by Aisukuri-Mu Studio**.

**During the French and Indian War (what we Americans call the North American theater of the Seven Years War-I was rather ashamed when I only found out they were part of the same war during research)****, some American militia were allowed to fight alongside British regiments. Frankly, they sucked. They sucked pretty bad in the Revolutionary War too, but fortunately _not quite bad enough to lose._** **Since this was the first really big conflict the colonials were allowed to help in (actually the fact they often weren't added to resentment against ****the Empire-it was their home and they wanted to help protect it, even if they admittedly did suck), I thought it would do well as the first fighting America sees. England certainly didn't want to let him, let his innocent little boy see the horrors of war and the horrors of Red England in action, but Teen!America was adamant.**


	4. Chapter 4

**My second-favorite scene! Please review or I'll let England near a kitchen!  
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><p><em>America's New York home, 1770<em>

_Fuming silently, America listens to the muffled clattering and curses coming from downstairs. England is in the kitchen furiously burning dinner in an attempt to repair relations after their latest fight. America can't even remember how the argument started, but it ended with a glare that nearly sizzled through the air and the two of them stalking away in opposite directions._

_Now he paces his room, simmering over a sullen, buried fire. How dare he? What gives England the right to do this kind of crap to America's people? The new taxes are to help England recover after the Seven Years War, and since part of that had been protecting America himself from France and Canada, he supposes England has the right to ask for a bit more. America would _agree_ to the new taxes if he could just have some sort of _say_ in the matter. His people—he—are citizens of the Empire. Why won't England treat them like it, then? With this sort of treatment America's seeing more and more sense in what Otis was talking about when he said taxation without representation is tyranny. _

_Why does he continue to act like America's a child to be ordered about? It's not just the taxation—that's merely the centerpiece of an __exquisitely arranged bouquet__ of conflict—but everything from that toddler's playpen called the Proclamation of 1763 to shoving soldiers into his people's homes to just being mean for no reason at all. _

_America sighs—he can feel his thoughts spiraling down the same path they've been taking all too often recently. He searches for something to get him out of this temper, since he doesn't feel much like arguing yet again with England today. He hates their fights, but these days it seems everything one of them does rubs the other the wrong way. _

_For the two it never takes much for stubborn pride to be injured and shouting to begin, and at that Canada always just melts away into the shadows in that silent, hunched way he has. The boy, shorter and skinnier than America despite their twin status, had arrived tear-streaked and curled around a bear cub in England's arms after the war. If anything England rants about France is true, it couldn't have been great to live under his care, but America wonders if their household of door slams and mute, snarling emotion is much better._

_America goes and slumps at his desk, rubbing his eyes wearily. He finds himself squinting to read in the weak candlelight more and more often lately, and it leaves his eyes aching every night. In this mood it's better to get out the house and run through his land until the itching is eased by exhaustion, until the cool night breeze flushes the growling thoughts out of him and replaces them with the smooth dream of flight._

_He pulls open the drawer where he stores his lantern and pauses, struck at the sight of the other occupant of the space. A scrap of old red cloth seems to stare back at him and America is struck by an idea far more appetizing than a night run._

_He sneaks into the hallway and listens carefully at the sounds echoing from downstairs. A steady stream of obscenity and a faint burning smell tell him now is the perfect time to act. He pads silently down the hall, automatically dodging the creaky boards, and jiggles England's bedroom's doorknob in the special way that disables the lock. Old houses have their uses, and America's known this house since before it was built. He chuckles lightly at the thought, and slips into the room, closing the door softly behind him. Everything's as neat and shipshape as usual, the only point sticking out a Descartes lying open on the bedside table. But America's not here for that—though he'll certainly think about the implications of England reading that particular author later—and walks into the closet._

_There it is. England's red war uniform, the redcoat of redcoats, complete with the medal from the King. The infamous scarlet cloak looms next to it, long folds disappearing endlessly into the shadows. America just looks for a moment, then frowns in determination, squares his shoulders, and strides forward._

_The uniform fits surprisingly well, he finds. It's even a little tight in the shoulders. When has England gotten that short, or rather, when has America gotten that tall? The uniform smells of gunpowder and blood and power, and maybe he's just imagining it but the roughness of the collar feels like sand and salt on his skin._

_He hesitates, one hand on the cloak. The uniform was one thing; he wore one himself in the French and Indian War and the conflicts after. The cape was another matter altogether, something entirely and purely of England's, only England's, dominion. But then America remembers the hurt England had inflicted upon him in their last argument, the scorn and contempt he felt for the younger nation evident in every venomous word, and scowls. In a swift movement he grabs the cloak off the hook._

_The mantle of the British Empire falls on his shoulders with a shocking weight and he almost drops to his knees under it. The unending folds spread around him, nearly swamping him before he manages to struggle to his feet. The tremendous, inexplicable weight presses down on his hunched shoulders, a suffocating compression that makes every breath an effort._

_It's then he notices something odder. Though the cloak has seen at least as much combat as the uniform, it smells only of England himself. It's the same scent of old books and tea and dewed heather and sea spray that had lain on the shirt he had stolen when he was younger and clutched on the nights England was away, the scent that to him means, indelibly, _home_._

_ America reminds himself that he's strong, freakishly strong for a colony, and that his eyes are just watering from the dust. He slowly straightens under the load. He tells himself it's not really that heavy at all and tries out a smile. He walks back into England's bedroom to look himself over in the light._

_In England's looking glass he cuts quite a dashing, frightening figure, if he does say so himself. His face rather ruins the effect though, he thinks, too young and innocent and full-cheeked with the remnants of baby fat. Time would take care of all three eventually, and in the meantime he decides he likes how he looks cloaked in power, clothed in ruthlessness. He smiles, a mere baring of the teeth, and can't help but break out in nervous giggles at how surprisingly terrifying he looks. If _America_ seems this scary in England's ensemble, no wonder England had frightened him the first time he saw him in it. He gives his younger self extra points for the sheer, heroic courage it had taken to approach Red England on the ship._

_He grins in pride, this time a real smile, and notices something else when he looks back at his appearance. The uniform and the cloak both are frayed around the hems. Is England really that far in debt? America has heard the Seven Years War had been pretty icky all around without much to show for it, but the frayed cuffs before him somehow wrings something painfully in his chest where the gossip hasn't._

_He's still staring at the loose threads with a frown when he hears exactly what he does not want to hear._

"_America? America, dinner's ready, where are you?"_

_He has stayed far too long. America's heart jumps with a sickening twist, and he begins to desperately look for an exit, eyes darting wildly like those of a small cornered animal. But there is only the one door out, and England is in the hallway. He decides to hide in the closet and takes a step—_

—_and the door opens._

"_Amer—" England freezes at the scarlet sight before him. Immobile himself, America watches England as a tumult of emotions crosses the older nation's face, so swift he cannot pick any out but the underlying expression of absolute horror._

_But then, knuckles white around the doorknob, England's countenance becomes as still and expressionless as a dead man's. It's his not-showing-the-world-his-thoughts face, the one he uses to talk to countries he doesn't like but has to be polite to, and America loathes it. It used to be that England was always open with him, always unreserved and honest with his little brother, but in recent decades that face has been pointed at America more and more often._

_The appearance of that expression sends a blaze of boiling anger through his chest, and he lashes out. "You look kind of pale, old man. Not scared, are you?" He'd say anything if it makes that face go away._

_England doesn't respond to the insult, doesn't even seem to hear it. _

"_Take that off, America. Put it back in the closet where it belongs."_

"_What if I don't—"_

"Please_, America."_

_Why isn't England shouting? England _always _shouts when America does something wrong. America's never heard that tone in England's too-quiet voice, never seen that empty look in his eyes before, and it's beyond unsettling. He retreats to the closet and changes, hanging England's reds back up as they were. He walks back out, and from England's expression America already knows this incident will never be discussed._

_They share a long moment of quiet between them. England lets out a long breath, closing his eyes for a moment, and the tension slowly leaks out of the room._

"_I've made blood sausage for dinner for a special treat. It's ready whenever you like." He attempts a careful smile._

_America sighs, stifles an eye roll. "England, I haven't liked blood sausage since I was, like, a_ hundred_."_

_England stiffens and something that looks a lot like wistfulness flashes across his face, to be rapidly covered up by outrage. "Now why in God's good name are you speaking like that madman Poland? I certainly never taught you to speak like some sort of delinquent."_

"_There is nothing wrong with how I talk! My people just took English and made it better!" The tension has returned, writhing up through the floor and heating the air around them. _

"_No, it's a perversion of the proper way of doing things! Just like you and your people corrupt everything my people send you!_

_America's feeling something akin to whiplash. After that bizarre little scene, they're arguing again. He hates it when they fight, but this time it's almost…comforting. It is a bit of normalcy in a situation that has been irrevocably changed. Clearly England feels the same way, for he's slipping easily into his role as the fusty old man who just doesn't understand what America's trying to say. _

_Though he's distracted for now, America knows he will be thinking about the events of today for a long time, thinking about him and England and the sight of his own blue eyes above the red._

~o0O0o~

The world had certainly changed since that day.

After a world conference in Stockholm one time in 1998, America energetically bothered England into coming with him on a quick McD*nalds run. England hadn't been clothed properly for a walk in the Swedish chill and characteristically denied he was cold through chattering teeth for the first several minutes. After a few choice comments America good-naturedly draped his bomber jacket over his companion's shoulders, carefully not thinking of the implications of such an action. At the time it had puzzled him when England in response stumbled and let out all his breath with an audible _oof_. After a minute, though, he began grumbling around flushed cheeks about the smell of burgers on the jacket, so America had supposed whatever happened hadn't been too serious.

Thinking back at all those memories now, America wondered how heavy his bomber jacket was these days. Some days it certainly felt as if the weight of the whole world was on his shoulders. It wasn't as though he just tossed the thing around willy-nilly to whoever wanted it, so he really didn't have much of an idea. Come to think of it…he'd _never_ lent it to anyone. He made a mental note to drop it on Canadia's head the next time he managed to see him.

America could feel the ominous approach of the next memory like a thundercloud on the horizon. He could see those uniforms even now, feel that rain on his face…

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><p><strong>If it's 1770 now, when do y'all think the next flashback might take place, eh? I can't imagine. ;D<strong>

**A bunch of thoughts on smells in this chapter. Y'know, when you smell something it goes right to your memory banks, only getting to conscious thought by the time you're already feeling nostalgic and deja-vu-y about where you've smelled it before. The smells also hint in a stronger way that these aren't normal clothes...and that England isn't the only one with vestomorphic personifications. I teared up, by the way, when I wrote about the frayed cuffs. It's the little things that get you...****little things like America lending England his treasured bomber jacket because he was cold! I just had to put that in there as a sort of reversal of the situation of 1770, showing how much things really have changed between them over the centuries. And, yes, I admit, also because it was adorable and the mental image of the two Not Going On a Date was too cute. Too bad America's oblivious and doesn't figure the weight thing out until now... And no, actually America's jacket smells like broad plains and open skies and a fresh breeze. Not that England will ever admit it or admit it's his favorite smell in the world.  
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**So why do you think England freaked as much as he did at the sight of America in his reds? Was it the abrupt realization that America is not a child any longer, that he really might leave England someday? **

**Were they all parent-child relationship, human emotions? Or also something else more...mystical, in line with the power of the clothing? By putting on the clothes of the Empire, did America doom himself to be the next big power-and to also fall the way all empires must? Was England terrified that his little boy might have to go through all the bloodshed and pain and cruelty that he has to as the British Empire? I imagine England having nightmares about those sadistic reds slowly bleeding into America's innocent blue eyes until only England's worst imperial qualities remain in those demonic blood-red eyes...*shivers***

**Personally I think all of these are true, and more. What do you guys think?**

**A note on America's language: You'll notice I don't bother trying to make any of my characters speak the language of the time, since it would be beyond difficult and be most likely incorrect. Also, it wouldn't have the same impact; just assume America's speaking in the 1770s equivalent of "what them thar young'uns are a'speakin' these days." His is the language of the young and rebellious, and England doesn't like it one bit.  
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**Historical stuff!**

**Not as much this chapter, but still a bit.**

**England reading Descartes: England reading philosophy about self-governance? And it's _French_? Sounds like someone wants to know what America's thinking...**

**Taxes: Indeed, for all we 'Mericans go on about how terribly we were treated then, the new taxes weren't really that bad-actually British citizens in the Isles had much more. It was more the fact that the colonials had no say in the matter that was important: "No taxation without _representation_," not "No taxation _whatsoever_." The line about taxation and tyranny I quote in America's thoughts, by the way, is most associated with Boston politician James Otis, though it was around in Ireland for at least two decades before this.**

**Another of America's grievances includes the quartering of British soldiers in colonial houses. How would you like it if some random, battle-worn, probably vice-filled and foul-smelling man was randomly shoved at you and you were told he was going to live in your house for a while? Not much, I'm sure, though this issue also has to do with the representation complaint. Actually, the 3rd Amendment to the Constitution explicitly states that quartering of troops in the houses of citizens is forbidden, not that we have to worry much about that these days.  
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**The Proclamation of 1763 is the one where the British government limited the spread of colonials to the Appalachians, which displeased all the people looking to spread west. I figured America would look at it as yet another way England's treating him as a child that needs to be kept safe and suffocated, unwilling to let him spread his wings and grow. A large part of it actually had to do with the Empire not wanting to get in more costly fighting against Native American forces. It's pretty sad when you have the _British Empire_ being the nice one when it comes to native relations...well, comparatively nice. **

**Next up is the infamous Day in the Rain.  
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	5. Chapter 5

**Here it, folks. *Angst Alarm goes off in the background***

**mofalle: My head!canon is expansive and slightly insane, yes. America's eyesight gradually deteriorates through these early memories (I think it's a side-effect of trying to civilize such a wild nation, especially where the written word is concerned). Fortunately Texas joins the Union in 1845, so it shouldn't be long until the poor boy can see again. Another side-effect of being still so wild is that America's much closer to the native wildlife, and that's just the sort of thing a mother bear would help her cubs with. England likes to pretend he's someone else when he's with young!America, someone who can do something _right_ for once in his life when it comes to other nations. And it's just so sad when he even fails at this (or so he thinks, anyway).  
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**ScatteredSands: Yes, I live in hope that if I entertain and/or annoy people enough, they'll review! Something like that...haven't really thought this through...Actually, I usually just eat, er, _read_ too much crack and act accordingly. ;D**

**LovelyToMeetYou: Thanks so much! And it's lovely to meet you too ;3  
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><p><em>The American Revolutionary War: Yorktown, 1781<em>

_ America has seen England across the battlefield before—how could he not, over four years of warfare—but this is the first time they've faced each other since America, stony-faced, handed England his Declaration of Independence. He has been wondering, all these years, whether England was deliberately avoiding him. Admittedly he hadn't been all too eager to face off against the man himself, with angry words covering an aching emptiness, and correspondingly stayed on his own side during their battles. He still heard England's crazed battle-laugh a few times, though it sounded harsher, more grating than usual._

_Now they face each other, too far away for America's heart, yet far too close for America's hurt. This is hard enough for him without so many of his people still loyal to the Crown or undecided, hard enough when he can barely stand for weariness and pain._

_Under the pouring rain it is difficult to see more than the general features of the nation before him. The red and white of England's uniform stands out less than he would have thought on the trampled, muddy field. _

_America finds himself unconsciously trying to look over England, checking him for injury as he did whenever England came home from his wars; an old habit that has no place in his life these days, especially since England has no home here any longer and never will again if America has anything to say about it._

_With that steadying thought, he raises his musket and points it at England with a straight and unwavering grip. It is time to bring out the little speech he composed all those years ago, simple and direct without the lies and twisty language the Europeans love to hide behind. He is a plain and honest person, and he does not intend to stop being so now that he is his own country. Or will be, as soon as England just admits it already._

"_England. All I want is my freedom. I'm no longer a child," he swallows, "nor your little brother. From now on, consider me independent!"_

"_NO!" The word tears out of England and he leaps for America, gun stabbing forward with a desperate thrust. "I won't allow it!"_

_The blade of his bayonet crashes against the stock of America's own weapon, knocking it out of war-weakened hands and to the sodden ground._

"_You idiot! Why can't you follow anything through to the end?" The blade of the bayonet comes to rest against America's throat before he can stumble away._

_Distantly America hears one of his officers tell the men to ready their weapons, but knows even if every bullet found their target they could not put either of them in more pain. France and Prussia are back there somewhere too, probably snickering to themselves, but he can't bring himself to care. He cannot manage to tell the men not to bother firing, either, because he can only focus on the bayonet trembling at his throat and the face before him._

_England is pale, with dark circles under over-bright eyes, his usually flyaway hair plastered flat against his head by the rain. Those eyes, usually warm forest green or acidic, annoyed lime, are now just empty, brittle and bitter. Water rolls down his face and heedlessly into his panting mouth, and—are those tears blending seamlessly into the rain? No, it can't be. For while England might occasionally cry, usually into his beer, Red England never weeps._

_The cold edge at his neck twitches, and America prepares for his death._

_ But then the blade droops, the musket thrown viciously away. _

_ "There's no way I can shoot you. I can't." England slumps to the mud like his body has given up on ever standing again. "Why? Dammit, why? It's not fair—" And America can't pretend anymore, because England is sobbing openly into his palm, shaking as the rain pounds icy needles into the dirt._

_ The red cloak is pooled around his hunched figure, crumpled and leaden with water and filth. His uniform is splattered with dank brown muck and his own blood. The formerly bright scarlet of the cloth is dimmed somehow, the red washed out and dulled by grime and water and maybe something else._

_America knows his own uniform doesn't look so pristine, either. Over the years it's become torn and worn, and America would clumsily mend it himself, blinking blurry eyes in the weak candlelight as he couldn't help but remember the sight of England's long, thin fingers swiftly darning the holes in young America's clothes, roughly used in play and adventure._

_His uniform has been stained by innumerable injuries as the British won battles and seized land; results of the organ failures and deep, weeping wounds that are only now starting to close and heal with the regaining of his territory and the retreat of the British. _

"_You know why." America whispers. Of course he knows why. They both know all too well why, and it's far too late to go back to what they were._

_He is so glad it is over, so tired and excited, terrified and happy. _

_He tilts his face to the sky and lets the rain drip down his newly-liberated face, washing away the tears that were never there._

_What had happened, for them to come to this?_

"_You used to be…so big."_

~o0O0o~_  
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Despite what England seemed to think, America didn't get some sort of vindictive enjoyment out of that day, of rubbing his liberty in England's face. He loved the day of his independence, the day he first stood up as his own man, forging ahead into a future of his own making. That's what he celebrated every July 4th, a day of new beginnings and hope, and that's why he always sent England an invitation. What better day to repair relations, after all? What America _didn't_ do on that day is celebrate the death of the relationship most important to him, the day he made his big brother cry.

But England never seemed to get that, did he?

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><p><strong>I've tried to shape this piece of <strong>**canon into something more _mine_. It's tricky, since this is probably the most fic'd piece of history _ever_, but I hope I've given you something that doesn't sound too much exactly like everything else out there, mostly through my theme of clothing embodying their wearers, not just covering their bodies (hehe, I can never resist even the lamest play on words). It's just impossible to talk about the relationship between our two sad boys without the Revolution coming up. Meh.  
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**For you purists, I have cherry-picked from the available lines and changed some small things, like adding England's cloak. Kill me if you must.**

**And yes, though I love bigbrother!France, in those days all the nations could really be assholes to each other. I can _definitely _see France feeling very pleased indeed at the sight of a broken England losing the most important person in his life, especially after England took Canada from him a few decades before. Of course, it hurts even more because that person is leaving of his own accord and England thinks America hates him now. And Prussia's laughing his head off because he's Prussia.  
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**Head!canon time!**

**The line about America preparing for his death: no, he's not just being melodramatic. In my canon, a nation-tan on the edge between utter failure and becoming his own country (or a similar situation) like America is during this (especially since he's still reeling and bleeding from having at least two of his thirteen colonies completely occupied at one point) can actually be killed, at least semi-permanently. So yeah. England not killing him is _serious business_.**

**Awesome Prussia logic time! America claims he's own country now, thank you very much. England says he's still part of the British Empire, part of _England_. So what happens when England's people have to fight against America's? As far as England is concerned, those are English subjects fighting against English subjects. He's killing his own people, and it feels like it's like a mini civil war. Add that to intentionally fighting against, hurting his little brother... Oh England... D:**

**Now, can y'all guess what flashback will come next? What year?**


	6. Chapter 6

** It does my shriveled little Grinch-heart good to hear your encouragement, y'all! When I'm filthily rich, you'll all get...well, probably little more than a peppermint. But still!**

**Lady Beslan: Ah, if I could I'd put in the specifics of every blink in their conversations...but that would probably get me flamed into the next week (admittedly I'd deserve it!), and I'm not remotely fire-retardant. Thanks for the love :D**

**Koure: I'm glad you think I managed to slap something new into the Revolution scene-as I wrote it I was more than a little paranoid I was just repeating the same old lines and the same old emotions. Thanks!**

**ScatteredSands: I had to watch the America's Storage closet scene several times to make sure I got the details right, and it was very annoying because water inexplicably kept welling up in my eyes and I got the same feeling in my stomach as when I realize all the rum-er-chocolate is gone. I have no idea why this happened. ;)**

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><p><em>En Route from the U.S. to Spain, 1811 <em>

_America is woken from a fitful sleep by the sounds of panicked shouting up on deck. Mind still foggy, limbs uncoordinated, his attempts to get out of the hammock end with him in a sprawled, tangled mess on the floor. Rather glad one of the actual sailors hadn't seen him in such a state, he manages to stagger to his feet. His stomach doesn't much like the quick movement, but his stomach never likes _anything_ to do with the sea so he tells it to shut up and stop being cowardly. He's pretty certain heroes don't get seasick, after all. _

_Hopefully whatever this commotion is isn't too serious. He's got boring diplomatic stuff to take care of with Spain, and he just wants this whole trip over and done with so he can focus on what's really important in his own lands. At least Spain knows how to throw a good party, unlike some nations he could name._

_He fumbles open the door onto deck and steps out, only to be met with a very bright shade of red, a very sharp sword held before his eyes, and a very familiar voice silkily drawling in his ear._

_Perhaps it would have been better to just stay in the brig and puke his guts out in peace._

"_And who's this?" England says with mock surprise. "What's your name, young man?"_

"_You know very well what it is, Kirkland," America says. "What do you want?"_

"_That's Captain Kirkland to you, boy. And we've had word there might be some pathetic deserters from His Majesty's Navy aboard this vessel, isn't that right, men?"_

_There's a mumbled chorus of "Yes Cap'n" from the British sailors, who stand guard over the disarmed and wild-eyed American crew._

"_Well, these are all my countrymen, _Captain_. There is no one here for you to steal." _

"_I'm not so sure about that, Mr. Jones. Some of these men definitely look like deserters to me."_

_America lowers his voice so he won't be overheard. "I've heard of the crap you've been trying to pull over the last few years, England, but this takes the cake. You really are a jerk."_

"_And you never fulfilled your promises to the Loyalists."_

_"The Articles of Confederation didn't give the central government the power to enforce that sort of thing, you know that. And not only have you been stirring up the Indians, but you didn't relinquish the western forts in the Ohio Country!"_

_"Still an idiot, I see. I _haven't _been stirring up your natives and I have no idea how that idea managed to get lodged in your thick skull. It's certainly not my concern your government is weak and pathetic. You barely have an army and even less of a navy; frankly, it'll just make it that much easier to eventually conquer you again. Once I run out of worthier targets, of course."_

_England smiles, a bright, hard curve that more in common with his gleaming blade than with actual mirth, and America remembers the stories he had heard of England's privateering days in the 1500s. He had been awed when he was young, though disappointed that England would always refuse to tell him stories of that time. Later on he dismissed them as more exaggeration than truth. Upright, duty-bound, pinky-out England running around with ruffians and criminals, avoiding his own government? He had laughed at the thought. But seeing England now, with that cutlass in his hand and that look in his eyes, it is far too easy to see the wildness and ruthlessness in him, to understand why Spain twitches towards his battleax whenever piracy is mentioned. _

_But America cannot let this bully of a country cower him. He's his own nation these days, the beginning of a powerful one, and he doesn't take this sort of treatment from anyone, especially not tyrants. Especially not someone who just blatantly lied to his face about the Indians. He had been there at Tippecanoe, and knew a British gun when he had one pointed at him. England really must think him stupid not to see something as obvious as _that._ So, veins roaring with fury, he strikes back, insult for insult, with what he knows will hurt England the most._

"_If you're still pissed off about the Revolution, I don't blame you. Having thirteen little colonies beat your imperial ass must have been quite a blow to your pride. And since aside from your pride you really don't have anything or anyone, it's no surprise you're still obsessing about it. But it was your own fault I did it, you know. Frankly, the way you were acting made it that much easier to break away." He hisses it, low spiteful words that snap like whips. _

_He hears a sharp intake of breath from his red companion, and then England swiftly turns until he faces America directly, the cloak brushing America's arm, and suddenly the icy line of the sword is pressed far too close on his throat. Every flutter of America's heightened heartbeat pulses against the edge. He has a horrible sense of déjà_ _vu as he stares into England's eyes, hard and green as emeralds. Not so long ago he had been in this same position, but this time all uncertainty, all care and emotion is excised from England's face as though with a doctor's scalpel. Any particle of the England he had known was gone, replaced by a face of stone and a wall of impenetrable red. America dearly wants to swallow, but he's afraid he might cut his own throat by doing so. Just because as a nation he probably won't die from the action is no reason to do so needlessly._

_England's voice is such a low snarl it barely sounds human. "If you don't stop your lip I'll just have to cut them both off, so shut your yammering maw and listen carefully. What you don't seem to realize, you insolent _wanker_, is that the only reason you are not currently beaten within an inch of your life, trussed and tossed into the deepest bilge water of the _Queene_ right now is that I do not particularly want to have to fight an upstart ex-colony when I have better enemies to destroy and more valuable lands to conquer." _

"_You have no right to press naturalized American citizens!"_

_England's sword is as rigid and unmoving at America's throat as if it is his arm that is the steel, not the weapon. The only movement between the two is the faint billowing of the long red cloak in the sea breeze, the same wind drying the cold sweat on America's forehead. They don't bother with blinking; America's too busy scowling at his former brother and England's too busy glaring back._

"_I am perfectly within my rights as a British captain to both impress British-born men into service and bring deserters of the Empire back into the fold. Since I can see someone who fulfills _both_ of those criteria in front of me, I suggest you stop talking. _Now_."_

_And with that, the blade is flicked away from America's throat and England walks back to the crews, turning his back on America with an arrogance that makes the younger man's blood boil. England gestures to five of the heavier-browed American sailors. "If I'm not mistaken, these men here are deserters. Bring them aboard."_

"_No way, you asshole!" America bursts out. "You're just picking them because their eyebrows are nearly as monstrously huge as your own!" _

_England sends him a disapproving look. "Tsk. I certainly didn't raise such a mouth. They're obviously British, and I'm also picking them because they look capable, compliant, and quiet. If only I could have done the same when I was picking colonies."_

"_Ha, you're certainly one to talk about cursing! You've got the mouth of a sailor and the morals of a pirate."_

"_Yes. Yes I do. But your childish self and your feeble country can't exactly do anything about that, can you? So, Mr. Jones, have a pleasant trip, be sure to say hello to Spain from me when you see him…oh, and drink plenty of water for that seasickness of yours. Come on, men. The day's young yet." He spins smartly on his heel and swaggers back to his ship, leaving an infuriated and confused America behind._

_As the _Faerie Queene_—honestly, couldn't he think of a better name after centuries of seafaring?—sails on its merry way, America is left with clenched fists, a tight jaw, and a depleted crew. This…this was too much. England was going _down_, giant army or no, ships-of-the-line or no. If he had to go through Canada to get to him and personally punch his too-clever mouth, he didn't care. _

"_Men! Turn this boat around. The Spanish can wait. We've got something more important to do at home."_

~o0O0o~_  
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As far as America was concerned, England practically _asked_ for the War of 1812. But that's the way he always acted, wasn't it? He had found at a young age that letting people in his heart would inevitably end in pain; with siblings like his, how could he not? And when he had tentatively opened those doors again to a little nation with eyes as blue as his spacious skies and hair like amber waves of grain, he was pushed away with a loaded gun.

So nothing was safe, nobody was beyond suspicion, and there was only one way to act. Get hurt, hurt them back tenfold. Get too close, push them back. Hide behind harsh words and harsher red so they can't see they succeeded in causing pain. No man is an island, Donne famously said. Yet England was one in every sense of the world, lonely and rainy and forever alone in splendid isolation.

Now England stood before him again, all hard lines and sharp angles. And that expression—oh the last time America had seen that particular smirk weaseling its way onto England's face, it had been mirrored by Canada as the two played Pin-The-Flaming-Torch-On-The-White-House.

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><p><strong><span>Seasick America<span>: It might be only my head!canon, but I don't see America as a very ocean-minded nation or person. It was an odd sort of reversal that in WWII _America _was the one in the Pacific Ocean campaign and _England_ was the one trapped in a mostly-land war. I bet they laughed about that. Oh how they laughed.**

**America's language: America noticeably swears much more here than he does anywhere else, and yes, it is intentional. He's going through a rebellious phase in more ways than one, and the fact that America using obscenity annoys England is all the more reason for him to do so.**

**England's language: Brits, yes, I know something of how bad a word 'wanker' is, even if as an American I don't entirely feel its punch. England's seriously pissed off at that moment, and I don't mean drunk. Americans, 'wanker' is a very, very bad word that you should not say when taking tea with the Queen or with your British friends.  
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**"capable, compliant, and quiet"****: ****Ah, but England, you did! His name is Canada, and...you forgot about him again, didn't you...****  
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**HISTORICAL NOTES  
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**The Loyalists, the Articles, and the Forts: The Articles of Confederation was the the very weak prequel to the Constitution. The government created by (lasted 1781-87) it really didn't have much control over the headstrong and authority-leery colonies - heck, it wasn't allowed to tax or raise an army, just _ask _for them. Part of the Treaty of Paris that ended the Revolutionary War stipulated that the Loyalists whose stuff had been seized during the war would be compensated and they would be allowed to return to the States to resolve business without being attacked in the streets or arrested. But most of the states just said "Hey, it's the Goodyear Blimp!" and ignored the stipulations. In return the British stuck out their tongues and refused to give back the western forts in the Ohio Country, which was another of the stipulations in the Treaty.**

**I get the feeling if the two were just shouting "You do it!" "No, you!" "Mooooom, he started it!" "Nuh-_uh_!" for about thirty years or so.  
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**The Native Americans: Skirmishes with Native Americans happened regularly as Americans began the the great western spread, the first inklings of Manifest Destiny. With tensions already as they were, the sight of the natives appearing with British-made weapons naturally made Americans rather suspicious, but the British insisted they had nothing to do with it, and for the most part this was true. American freaking out over this reached a height in 1811 at the Battle of Tippecanoe.**

**Impressment: Just about nobody wanted to be in the Royal Navy other than England himself, and for very good reason. It sucked. It sucked in a way that made your now very short life miserable beyond belief. So the Navy had something called the Press to fill in the gaps in the crew, so to speak. If you were a man and sorta knew what a ship was, you'd sit down in a pub with some very nice gentlemen who kept paying for your drinks and wake up in the middle of the Atlantic with a new occupation. Unsurprisingly, desertion was common, and so the British would hunt down men they thought were deserters, often boarding American ships and searching them for them.  
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**America's particularly mad here because England has been being a supreme asshole when it comes to impressment and American citizens. Y'see, most people in America were _naturalized_, that is, they weren't born on American soil, but gained their citizenship after immigrating or after independence was gained. But the British were all like "What'chu talkin' 'bout? They were born British and we can press them if we want. Shut up and go back to playing with your toy boats."**

**This ashamed and infuriated the Americans because they weren't able to protect their ships and men from search and seizure.**

**On the American side, they were doing very sneaky things with avoiding paying duties and crossing their fingers behind their back while insisting that, "No, of course we're not trading with the West Indies! Whatever gave you that idea?"**

**It's like America is a canker sore that England can't help but poke, and America can't help put poke back.**

**Ships-of-the-line: These were battleships, also called man-o-wars, with multiple masts and decks. When war broke out, the United States had a whopping none. The U.S. Navy was eighteen years old at the time, and had barely a dozen ships, with its most powerful being three frigates (three masts and two decks). Whereas the British had _eighty-five_ ships in American waters, including eleven ships-of-the-line and thirty-four frigates. Fortunately for the American side, though, the British ships were undermanned even with impressment and foreign & criminal recruits; conditions in the Royal Navy were horrific and _not _a good way to live past thirty-five. Still. Just about the only reasons the U.S. was not crushed rapidly were that their naval people had some experience with combat already and that Great Britain had a little French rascal named Napoleon to deal with. And when Britain managed to go all Lord Nelson on him and focus on the Americas...well, you'll see in the next chapter.**

**"Go through Canada to get at him": Canada's still property of the British Empire, and his closeness and resources is making him look pretty tasty. And all the War Hawks in Congress don't help at all...**

**"No man is an island": Written famously by English poet John Donne in "Meditation XVII". I think Donne must have written this specifically for England, it just so perfectly fits him. Do I smell a oneshot?**

**Splendid Isolation: A phrase used to refer to British foreign policy in the late 19th century, but I think it can be applied to England for so much more. I can just hear him insisting that he's fine, dammit, and his isolation is splendid and _completely_ intentional, and he doesn't need any-bloody-body, especially not that tosser America, and pass him another brandy already, can't you see he's thirsty?**

**And that, my friends, is the way too long Author's Note that you all just skipped :D Don't worry, they get longer!  
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	7. Chapter 7

**And now for something completely different!  
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**Verteigiger01: Yeah, it was pretty fortunate for the sea battles that the Navy, though young, had already seen action. Not to mention the fact that New England especially was very ocean- and fishing-based at the time... ****My head!canon on the subject is probably just me projecting my opinions of mostly-land-locked current America on the much-more-coastal younger one. Yet I can't seem to shake it for some reason. Something about the dichotomy between seafaring England and land-based America appeals to me, I suppose. Oh well. Won't be the first time I've believed some waaay inaccurate stuff ;D**

**Dar-Fate17: I'm glad you're finding this engaging-sometimes after I re-read and re-edit for the bazillionth time I worry that it's too boring. I'm looking forward to posting my favorite flashback of all, which shouldn't be *too* long now... It's actually not only the last chronologically, but also the first one I wrote! My mind works in weird ways sometimes...**

**misanthrope1: *grins shamelessly*I love it when history backs me up on this stuff. I swear that poem _had_ to have been written with a personal familiarity with England, it's too perfect not to be. I'm definitely considering writing that "No man is an island, even England" fic now...am thinking to set it during WWII after France surrendered and before the Ruskies and 'Mericans joined in, when England was fighting alone against the Axis. That kind of situation could make any bombed-out nation gloomy and introspective.  
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><p><em>Washington D.C. August 24, 1814 <em>

"_WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" America screams. It feels like he has raw, fiery heartburn, which he finds darkly, distantly amusing since that is quite literally what is happening. Washington D.C. is aflame, and the two culprits stand in front of him. They stand in matching British uniform, hateful ember-red reflections of each other in the burnt umber of the setting sun._

"_Ah, there you are, America," England says pleasantly, as if the three of them are having tea in his rose garden rather than standing in front of the Presidential Mansion with an intent to commit arson. Canada just glares, fingers clenched around a torch. A low, continuous growl emanates from his soot-dusted bear._

"_Why are you _doing _this?" Every beat of his heart hurts._

_Canada is shockingly loud. "What, don't you remember what you did to York? You burned the parliament of Upper Canada, and now we're returning the favor."_

_America is beginning to feel lightheaded. "What are you talking about? Why would I burn New York's parliament? He's a nice guy."_

"_You-!" Canada steps forward, his usually gentle face scored by rage, and punches America in the stomach. Great, now he's even more nauseous. "What kind of nation attacks his own brother?"_

_England laughs bitterly. "A very European kind of nation, of course. I thought you hated the kind of backstabbing we did on the Continent, America. I suppose you inherited more from me than I thought. What's next, are you going to start your own empire?"_

_America's frown deepens. "I'm not—you know what? Screw it. Look, you've already got the Capitol building and everything else. Ju-Just don't burn the Presidential Mansion too." Pain is creeping down his left arm, and they're going to burn it despite his words, but there's no way he's going to say 'please' to these bastards._

"_I can burn whatever I want, and you're certainly in no position to stop me," Canada snaps, and with that he throws the torch through a window with a crash of expensive glass. It doesn't take long for flames to start licking up the walls. America just watches in dull horror, his chest feeling like it's wrapped in acid flame. He stands stiff and straight, though. He's not going to let them see his weakness if he can possibly help it._

_They watch the fire grow for a few minutes, silent but for the crackling of the burning house. America tries to blink the sweat from his eyes but only manages to add spots to his vision._

_England daintily brushes soot off his uniform. "Well, it's been fun, Canada, America," god, that smirk, "but I've got to finish mopping up after an upstart Frenchman." He gives them a little bow and saunters off, the red of his clothing standing stark and dark before the light of the flames._

_ Canada smirks back and turns to America after a moment. It's only then he notices how worn out Canada looks, as exhausted as he feels. "Well, America, if you're as tired as you look and I feel, then why don't we just call this a tie and go home? You burned my government buildings, I burned yours, call it even?"_

_ America smiles slightly, ruefully. What a time for their weird twin mind-reading thing to kick in. Why couldn't it have happened when he needed to know Canada's battle plans? He can't manage to stop panting for long enough to reply, so he just nods woodenly._

_ "I'm sure England will agree to peace; he never really wanted to bother with this war in the first place, not when he's busy fighting Papa—er, France. I'll see you around, eh?"_

_He walks away too after a polite little bow, and it is only then that America allows himself to unlock his knees and fall to the ground, the pain washing through his chest with every throb of his scorched heart. So this is what a heart attack feels like…He blinks, but only sees darkness when he opens his eyes._

_It is only after he regains consciousness in safety with the Madisons that he learns D.C. has not been razed to the ground, learns that someone high in British command has ordered only public buildings be burned. Private homes and businesses would have been left untouched but for that tornado that came out of nowhere._

_America rubs the new charred scar on his chest and frowns thoughtfully. He wonders how many times a city as old as London has burned._

~o0O0o~_  
><em>

America found himself wrapped in the same thoughts he always had at the sight of Red England. Did the red embolden him to show his inner self, strip away the pretense, the cultured, gentlemanly, caring veneer to reveal the true England of bared tooth and crimson steel? Was the England of his youth just a persona, a costume like Britannia Angel? America always refused to admit that he feared this, insisted to himself he did not feel enough for the old man to care either way.

Or is it just an act, thrown on and off with the red itself? When America was young England had always maintained this was the case. America dearly wishes this is the truth, yet despite all the theater in his blood England's never been much of an actor.

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><p><strong>I don't know about you, but I love pissedoff!Canada.<strong>

**York: A little city later called Toronto. Funny story: you know that silly "Don't Mess with Texas" slogan? Well, if you piss off Canada, he can and will mess with Texas. However he Damn. Well. Pleases.**

**Heartburn and Heart Attacks: It's canon that a nation's capital city is his heart. So when the capital city is torched, what does the nation feel? Heartburn, of course! *slaps self for pun* Throughout this scene, America's progressively feeling some of the warning symptoms of a heart attack. I feel it's an appropriate equivalent for having your federal government burned to the ground, especially with the chaos and the loss of control.**

**"...start your own empire." : A bit of foreshadowing here. Ever heard of the way America met and absorbed the Philippines, Puerto Rico, Hawaii, Alaska and Cuba? Not to mention stuff like the Louisiana Purchase and the Mexican-American War.**

**Presidential Mansion: The White House, of course! But it was only nicknamed that after it was rebuilt after the war.**

**"...an upstart Frenchman." : A certain Corsican named Napoleon. England's been too busy trying to put him into a full Nelson (heheh *slap*) to be able to spare much attention for the American War, which is partly why we lasted as long as we did. As soon as Napoleon was shipped off to his own personal island adventure in 1814, Great Britain was able to send a ton more troops into the Americas. This resulted in their victory at the Battle of Bladensburg and the subsequent D.C. bonfire night.**

**Random tornado: For realz guys, there was a heavy thunderstorm that swept into D.C., doused the fires, and leveled up into a cannon-juggling tornado. The burning of D.C. was surprisingly civil and bloodless, due particularly to British soldier discipline. The tornado forced the British to retreat to their ships as well, and so the occupation of D.C. only lasted 26 hours.**

**British orders to burn only public buildings: When I read about this, I audibly squealed because that's just the sort of thing England would do, be unable to throw America's heart into an inferno. Have I mentioned I love it when history backs up my thoughts on characters?**

**Wanna hear an awesome story? Look up what Rear Admiral Cockburn's creative solution to media slander was. No, I'm not going to tell you ;3**


	8. The Adventures of Cockburn the Smarm

**==RANDOM AWESOME HISTORICAL STORY TIME==**

On the matter of a certain Rear Admiral George Cockburn: In case you weren't able to find out what happened, I'll just have to tell you the glorious story. It was too long to put at the beginning of the next chapter, is all, and it's just too awesome not to tell you about. In my own "special" way, I suppose.

*Ahem* These, my friends, are the Marvelous Adventures of the Glorious Lord of Smarm, Rear Admiral Cockburn. With a name like Cockburn, how could he not be awesome? And no, he wasn't compensating for anything! Shut up...

If this man was not Red!England in disguise, I don't know who else would be. Though it could be possible he is Prussia in cunning disguise...hmmm...

Rear Admiral George Cockburn was a man who could hold a grudge, the kind of gentleman who was at once absolutely chivalrous and white-gloved and yet an absolute bastard. The American media did not approve of him at _all_, and in particular a D.C. newspaper, the _National Intelligencer_, published more than a few scathing comments concerning his practices as the War of 1812 raged. They were not without cause, since in one incident under his command the soldiers of the Canadian Chasseurs (former French prisoners of war fighting for England) went on a raping and murdering rampage (Dang it, France! Why do you have to be such an ass sometimes?) This also brought criticism from the English government, by the way. Cockburn being Cockburn, he tracked down copies of the angry newspapers (especially the _Intelligencer_ because it always had deliciously nasty things to say about him) whenever ashore and read what was being said about him, smirking and cackling the whole time.

When the British landed ashore in force, he was the one who convinced the commanding officer, General Robert Ross, to advance upon the capital. He had his own nefarious plans, of course...

As D.C. burned, he smarmily smarmed his way over to the offices of the _National Intelligencer_ at the head of his men and at the horrified occupants. He was about to order it burned to the ground when some women from next door approached him. It doesn't say their ages, but I'm imagining (and he probably was, too) a mix of old matrons and sweet young things, all trembling at his overpowering British smugness. They pleaded he not burn the building down, as they feared their own houses would catch fire.

Being the gallant gentleman he was, he chivalrously agreed not to burn down the building. But even ladies would not deny Real Admiral George Cockburn his sweet, sweet revenge. He correspondingly ordered his men to tear down the building, brick by brick. And to make sure those rude Americans wouldn't be able to malign the noble name of Cockburn again, he had a rather...creative solution. He ordered his men to get all the metal type used in the printing press, and said:

"Make sure that all the C's are destroyed, so that the rascals can have no further means of abusing my name." And so they did.

With a flourish Cockburn then jumped on his white horse and strolled through D.C., thoroughly enjoying himself, and if I'm any judge was stroking a white cat and grinning the entire time.

And guess what? When he had his official portrait painted, he had the backdrop be of D.C. burning. Sadly, he is not in red in it...but I bet he was at the actual event. I bet he wore red the whole frickin' time.

Oh, and in 1809 he married his cousin. So...yeah.

I tell you people, this is the absolute truth. Here's my source and everything: America's Military Adversaries: From Colonial Times to the Present, by John C. Fredriksen.

And don't worry, guys. The next chapter in Red England will be up later today ;)


	9. Chapter 8

**My muse is like a rather needy puppy that needs plenty of feed. And by feed I mean feedback. Review!**

**Holy cow this section is long. It helps make up for the relative shortness of the last two, I suppose.**

**JAGartist: England always looks fabulous in red *random sparkles*, and it's amazing how many meanings can be found in it. It amazed me too when I first had the idea of this story. Could the color red really be a constant thread in their relationship? But then I was like, "oh yeah, I could totally write something about his red in WWII and WWI was gone but not forgotten and the washed-away red of the Revolution, and of course I'd have to show him scary and bloody so the French and Indian War too and oh yeah before all that started with Chibi!America and what if America tried on his big brother's clothes in a moment of hero worship or spite oh and I should also show Red!England in the war of 1812 and of course show how that started but then I need something to connect the feelings of mutual anger and betrayal of before with the tentative friendship of 1917...hrm... And my friend PirateTree gave me the most marvelous idea ever. That was my train of thought, thereabouts. My trains of thought are very long and tend to go off the rails and kill innocent people, but it's all in good fun so who cares! Ahahaha. Ha.**

**ScatteredSands: Very much agreed here—I really shouldn't have been laughing as hard as I was when I read the story for the first time and then wrote it up for myself, since it was about the terrorization of my own ancestors and the burning of my own capital, but Cockburn's such a glorious ass and such a magnificent bastard that I can't help but love him. (Not that I'd want to meet him in person…) And his name, too? Pffff. Too perfect. Seriously, was he Red!England in disguise or something? I'm actually becoming convinced of it, since Red!England is even more of an ass that normal England is…and during his whole white-horse-gloating-strut-of-victory thing he _did_ help make sure the soldiers didn't start torching private property…hmm…**

**AllHeroesWearHats: Thanks! :D This fic is still pretty early in the writing process, so make sure you point out anything else you think needs fine-tuning.**

**JuniperGentle: Hey, I'm a firm believer in "better late than never," especially when it comes to awesome things like your review! **

**(1) The Red Ranger would have been America, hands down, if he hadn't been too busy fanboying with Japan. Sometimes, the two of them…it's almost as bad as when Japan and Hungary unite in search of yaoi. **

**(2) I wanted this first demonstration of the exact moment of change between Red!England and Bigbrother!England to have a snap-of-the-fingers sort of feel. My favorite line in that section is the one with "warm blankets and cool mint"—it's somehow precisely what I imagine Bigbrother!England to be. **

**(3) Great! That's exactly what I was going for in a nutshell. Red!England is a figure of terror, beauty, dark amusement, and above all _power_ in every form. I enjoy lovely imagery for things that aren't in the least lovely ;) After a scene like America witnessed, with England picking _ears_ off his clothes and France perving and both of them snarking like they aren't in the middle of a bloody battle and Canada rolling his eyes…I have the feeling afterwards he ran into the woods and laughed hysterically/cried for a few hours. It's interesting displaying the older countries to a new member of the club—they've been fighting for so long against one enemy or another that they view some things as completely normal that shouldn't be at all. **

**(4) Yes, this is my second-favorite scene. Y'all haven't met my favorite yet. Somewhere about halfway through writing it I looked up a synonym for "cloak" since I didn't want to be writing it over and over again, and "mantle" popped up. The thought "America trying on England's mantle…England's _mantle_" sort of pranced through my mind as I stared in wonder for a moment…and then I jumped on that idea and _rode_ it wherever it would take me. My father (an excellent alpha reader, btw) read over this section and had a rather Toy Story 3-esque reaction. His little girl just went to college, you see. England reading a _French_ writer? Anything for America. **

**(5) Good, good. Revolutionary war fics are only slightly more numerous than 9/11 fics…sigh… **

**(6) I admit, I didn't make the sea connection with that figurative language until you pointed that out. I love my subconscious sometimes ;D And the emerald thing: it annoys the skittles out of me when every other word in a fic is about "England's emerald eyes" and "America's sapphire eyes" so I try to use jewel adjectives about eyes sparingly, and only when calling someone's eyes a clear and hard crystalline structure actually has a point. *Phew* Rant done. **

**(7) Furious!Canada is scarier than Sweden _and_ Russia. Remind me not to go to a hockey game with him. The Italics: Agreed, though it does look a bit better when all the chapters are strung seamlessly together in Word. If I ever get around to it I'll probably switch things so the italics are the alien-era bits and the non-italics are the flashbacks. Thank you for this lovely review! And I hope your brother enjoyed it too :)**

**ANYWAY**

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><p><em>The Convention of Peking, The Second Opium War: October, 1860<em>

_ America wouldn't have expected it to take so long for a guy to sign away his life and pride, but these are Europeans and Asians, after all. The kinds of people that can spin out a war for a hundred years doubtlessly do everything else at the same pace. He adjusts his glasses yet again as the interminable treaty signing continues. He's mostly gotten used to having Texas and its accompanying clarity of vision over the past fifteen years, and the movement is more habit than necessity at this point. The seats are uncomfortable and in the beautifully decorated room, but he hasn't been sleeping well lately and can't care less at this point. In addition, not only is it nice and warm here, but also the low buzz of conversation around him isn't helping to keep him…from…falling…falling…_

_ There's abruptly a twisting, painful jerk in the pit of his stomach and spots flare before his eyes before, slowly, subsiding. It's nothing new these days, but it surprises him back into wakefulness just the same._

_He blinks and twitches himself further awake. Falling asleep at an important event like this will not endear him to any of the older countries. He certainly doesn't need to give them any more excuses to think him young and weak. As the speakers droned on during the signing, he tried surreptitious pinches and doodling on his notes, but it's into the fourth hour now and he's running out of diversions. Resolutely America turns to his companions, studying them closely in the hopes of distracting himself._

_China's face is as controlled and stoic as ever, but his calligraphy on the treaties is too sharp, jagged and sickly, the blackness of unbalanced strokes stark against the white paper. The gold embroidery on his elegant robe gleams in the lamplight, but it is a dull shine, reflecting the light instead of creating it._

_France chatters cheerfully to nobody and about nothing in particular, hands gesturing expansively, heedless of the wine glass in one hand. The movements have splashed some of the red wine over his starched white cuffs. It seems he's a jolly drunk _and_ a jolly victor. No surprise there, but it _had_ been a surprise to America when England and France united in the war against China. America supposes the thought of oriental riches begging to be leeched away can unite even those two, however temporary it may turn out to be._

_Russia placidly beams around at everyone in that vaguely creepy way he has but America can tell he's keeping an eye on England the whole time. England completely ignores Russia, though, just sits and watches China with hooded eyes and a self-satisfied smile, absently rubbing a corner of his scarlet cloak between long fingers. No wonder he looks so pleased; he's finally getting his opium trade legalized, among other tasty concessions. Relations between England and America are much better these days, at least as far as politics are concerned. As people instead of countries, though, they've barely exchanged a sentence since 1814._

_India stands behind England, demure and polite in a way America had never managed when he accompanied England to meetings. "Jewel in the British crown" indeed. Had England finally found the perfect, obedient little colony he said he always wanted back in 1811? America swallows the familiar bitter taste and turns his thoughts firmly back to Russia. He snorts. Think about that: preferring to think about _Russia_ rather than anyone else, what a joke._

_Just last year Russia offered to sell him Russian America, and for a very reasonable price, too. America's considering taking him up on it, but the way things are going at home he thinks now might not be the best time to drain his coffers._

_Because 'things' are certainly going, and they're going south in more than one sense. Some of America's southern states have sworn they will separate from him, break away and make their own country. How can they even think to do that? Not to sound like Russia, but they're all one, one nation and one America. Sure the states have their differences, but can't they just talk it over and talk it out? Why resort to secession and war when his states know how much it will hurt him, know how much it will hurt themselves?_

_But then his eyes alight once again on England, and an unpleasant realization hits him like a bucket of ice down the collar. Ah. So that's how it is. They think they're fighting against tyranny, struggling for liberty. That would be perfectly acceptable—after all, what's more American than fighting for freedom?—except that the tyrant here is him, his very existence holding them down. But he's not, how could they even think that, it's ridiculous, he's just trying to keep everyone happy! And a large minority is very unhappy in their shackles and another large minority isn't happy the majority isn't quite all right with that—_

_Now there's _really_ no way he is going to tell England what's happening. He can see his response now, a flat look followed by a drawled 'So they want to separate from you. And they think their voices aren't being heard. And wasn't there something about tyranny? Hmmm, no, I can't imagine where I've heard _that_ before.'_

_Why was he even considering telling the man his troubles anyway? He didn't need England, hadn't for a century and never would again, and England would never need him. He had certainly been able to walk away from his ex-colony without much of a hit to his economy._

_Dammit, how do his thoughts always circle back to England? It's his fault, sitting there grinning like the cat that's just caught the canary. Or, rather, like the lion that's just caught the red-crowned crane. _

_There is another twinge of pain and a wave of queasiness rolls through him. It takes a minute before he can think coherently again, and he takes a steadying breath._

_Okay. It's only seven states outright threatening to leave right now if Lincoln wins, and there are thirty-four total states. That's only a…fifth. A hero would totally be able to handle losing a fifth of himself. And surely only seven would leave (not that they would anyway, this is all theoretical hahaha) and other slave-holding states wouldn't leave too. Right? Right._

_America rubs his forehead. It's pretty pathetic when a country can't even __lie __properly to himself._

_England rises and begins speaking about trade or something equally tedious; America really doesn't care at this point in the convention. He ignores the actual meaning of the stream of words, just lets that smooth accent wash over him, the familiar tones flowing gently through his mind._

_He can't help but remember what had happened just a year before at the Taku Forts, how Commodore Tattnall had violated American neutrality to swoop in and save a British and French squadron under heavy fire. When reprimanded, the man had just laughed, shrugged, and said "blood is thicker than water" as if it explained everything. And, watching England's fingers dancing on the table in ancient, absent habit, wiry shoulders thrown back proudly under the red mantle, every syllable and twitch so familiar and dear to him despite the years and their estrangement, America can see how those words might actually do so. They aren't even related by blood, but something is there and it's far thicker than any water. His usual broad grin becomes slightly more genuine at the realization._

_But then even England's voice fades away as he feels an all-too-familiar pull in his stomach, like someone's reaching into him and is grasping, clawing, dragging away his insides. This time it's far worse than before, a wrenching yank that makes his knees go weak and his vision hazy. He breaks out in sweat as a shivering roll of heat pulses through him, bile rising in his throat._

"_Git. You're not even listening, are you? America? America!" The words echo oddly in America's ears, and if he didn't know better, he'd think England actually sounds concerned. Yet he has no time to consider this further because he feels like the world has suddenly stopped spinning and he doesn't know where to put his feet, and warm hands are grasping his shoulders but he can't see because everything's going distorted and dim as dark waves crash over him…_

~o0O0o~

_When the black waters recede and he opens his eyes, feeling far too comfortable, for a moment he can only see red. America's woozy mind takes a minute to attempt to reason this out, and it comes to him slowly. There's some sort of thick crimson cloth covering him, and despite the fact that the Chinese couch he's lying on was made for uneasy sitting and elegantly couched intrigue, he's feeling ridiculously comfortable because the heavy cloth smells like—oh hell. He sits up quickly, too quickly, and his head reels._

_England sits in a chair beside the couch, book in hand and jacket hung neatly by the door. Despite the century of distance, it's an achingly familiar scene. Back then whenever America was sick he'd wake up to find England waiting patiently, one hand propping up a book, the other wrapped comfortingly around America's. America looks down to find this latter part of the ritual is not repeated, though, and his hand feels cold and bare without England's clasp. He supposes he'll just have to do this single-handedly then. Ahaha. Ha._

_America resolves not to ask him about what happened when he passed out. No doubt England would delight in telling him exactly how badly he messed up and precisely how he offended absolutely every person in the room, yadda yadda yadda, and he's not exactly in the mood to be chewed out by someone who lost any authority over him a long time ago._

_He manages to admit to himself that he also can't bear to ruin with England's harsh words any private wishes he has about the owner of the hands who caught him. It was probably Russia anyway, the bastard.  
><em>

_England turns another page and, without looking up, says "How are you feeling?"_

_America takes stock. He's got a headache, nausea, and the now-subsided ache in his abdomen that feels less like a healing injury and more like a snake lying in wait to strike again. "Fine."_

"_Really." England said flatly, raising his sardonic gaze to meet America's._

"_Really! In fact, I feel great."_

"_Are you sure about that? Because from what it looks like, you have at least a headache and nausea…and if I'm right about the way you're holding that arm, some sort of stomach injury."_

_America hurriedly pulls away the arm he's been unconsciously pressing to his middle. Stupid England can be far too clever sometimes, oxymorons be damned. _

"_I'm fine," is all America says in reply. "Where's Texas?"_

_England wordlessly hands him the glasses, still looking at him in that annoying, careful way._

_America has no intention of answering any more personal questions and accordingly opens the mental file where he keeps his verbal deflecting strategies. Deploy distraction tactic one: laugh and joke. He chuckles. "I won't tell Texas he was temporarily conquered by Great Britain if you won't."_

"_America. What's going on?" Hmmm. Distraction tactic one has failed. Activate distraction tactic two: anger and unresolved issues._

"_What do you care, anyway? It's not as if it matters." Oops, that comes out more bitter than he intends._

"_The United States is a valuable trading partner; its loss would negatively impact the economy of the British Empire. While the impact would be small, it would still be negative." Unfortunately, England's much better at smoothly dodging loaded questions and hitting back backhanded compliments than he is. Time for distraction tactic three: outright lies and England-aggravating rudeness._

_America sighs heavily and, rolling his eyes in mock defeat, pretends to examine his much-chewed fingernails. "It's just some unrest building between my states. Soon enough the caffeine will wear off and they'll go back to shooting spitballs at each other. It's nothing to get your hoity-toity Victorian knickers in a twist about."_

_Nose wrinkled in distaste at the uncouthness of the last comment, England regards him for a long moment, sharp eyes pinning the younger nation to the bed, and America forces himself not to squirm under that gaze._

"_Look, just don't start poking your big European noses into this. It'll resolve itself on its own, in a good ol', democratic, _American _way, and we don't want opportunistic vultures circling and egging people on."_

"_Disregarding the…fascinating mental imagery prompted by your lattermost statement—" but he's interrupted as America begins to cough into a hand, enormous, hacking coughs that continue for a good half a minute before he manages to get control of his throat. At the sight of his hand America quickly wipes his mouth with it and slips it under the cloak still on his lap. There are certain advantages to having a blood-red cloak that he has not appreciated until this moment, but now he can see why ever-practical England keeps it around._

_England's giving him another one of those annoyingly perceptive looks, and America has the feeling that if he doesn't know exactly what is going on he certainly suspects._

_ America thrusts out his chin defiantly and hurriedly turns England's attention away from whatever direction his thoughts are going. "As I was sayin', this is an internal matter and will remain so, all right? We'll resolve this on our own or die trying."_

_ His choice of words is not the best._

"…_Or die trying," England repeats softly, looking away._

_ "Yeah," America replies, voice just as soft, looking down at his hands fisted in the red cloth._

_ They let the silence seep around their averted gazes, snaking down in long cotton tendrils to coil between the two._

_ "America—"_

_ "England—"_

_ Their eyes meet and America tries to put as much confidence and strength into the look as he can. He _will_ fix this on his own, and any European intervention will do more harm than good. It will imply the young United State cannot solve its own problems, has to run back to the mother countries for help. And he will not have that, not when it took so long to get away in the first place. He narrows his eyes as he looks into England's, and he sees more understanding than he would have expected._

_England leans back in his chair, book closing with a soft _snap_. "Well then, America, if you're so certain you are now recovered from your swoon, are absolutely…fine, as you say, and will continue to be so, I suppose I will have to keep my large European nose in my own business and head back to the treaty signing. I'll make sure the frog doesn't bother you either."_

"_Yes, I guess I should too. Though it's awful boring."_

_Despite their words both remain seated, again looking everywhere but at each other as another uncomfortable pause washes through._

_America speaks again. "Er…and England, you might want to look into alternate sources of cotton. I have this…feeling there might be difficulties in your shipments from my South. Just sayin'."_

_England eyes him a moment and walks back to his jacket by the door. "Very well."_

"_Wait, don't you need your cloak back? Here."_

_He doesn't turn to look at America, continues buttoning his jacket with his face to the exit. "Oh, just be sure to give it to one of the maids to wash." He waves a dismissive hand over his shoulder. "I can't be having blood that actually matters to me stain it for once in its life. Dried blood is the devil to clean off, after all." And with that little bombshell, he opens the door and strolls out without a backwards look._

__~o0O0o~

Blood was thicker than water, but was it thicker than tears? Despite his own pigheadedness, despite England's ability to hold a grudge long past it going stale, despite everything…it seemed so.

Even though red was one of his three national colors, America had never felt the war-red was his own. There was a reason why his selves chose grey and blue during his Civil War, and not just because the dye was cheaper than red. There was a reason that whenever he wore England's reds it was so temporary. No, the battlefield's blindingly bright shock of scarlet belonged to flashing green eyes, a blur of shining steel, and a short but never slight build.

* * *

><p><strong>So England's never gotten America's blood on his reds before. All this time, and England never so much as pinpricks America. He's more a man whose actions are more to be believed than his words, and considering all the times he's had a weapon (figurative or literal) held at a defenseless America and in the end decides not to hurt him...<strong>

**The reason England for once actually says something concrete about his relationship with America with the last comment about blood - heck, the reason he's so unaccountably gentle and Pre-Revolution-y in the second half of this flashback - is because he's seeing the possibility that he will not always be the one to threaten America with death and inevitably let him go. In a strange, twisted way it's his way of protecting him. And being a veteran of civil wars himself, he can't help but give some comfort, even if it's in a decidedly England way.**

**Here and in the next few chapters, watch out for a certain word. Need I tell you or will you..._cotton on_ to it yourselves?  
><strong>

**Historical notes:**

**The Second Opium War: China showed how displeased it was with the whole occupation and unfair trade-deals thing (can't imagine why), and in response Britain and France united (shockingly, for them) in order to crush China, burn a few palaces, and renegotiate some trade deals even more to their advantage than before. It didn't help that China had imprisoned and mistreated some Western citizens. Russia and America each sent envoys and were neutral during the war in an attempt to see if they could negotiate some sweet, sweet concessions for themselves. England and France were actually going to burn the Forbidden City, but since the treaty signing was nearby they decided to torch the Old Summer Palaces instead.**

**The Convention of Peking were the treaties signed in 1860 between China and Great Britain, France, and Russia each.**

**Texas: Texas joins the United States in 1845. Yay, America can see!**

**Russia eyeing England: The two are now deep in The Great Game or Tournament of Shadows, the strategic rivalry between the Russian and British Empires from about 1813 to 1907, especially in Central Asia. It began when Russia went all "Become one with Mother Russia" with his southern neighbors and got a little too close to the "jewel in the British crown," India. Things happened, as things generally do, including the British arming people in the Middle East in the hopes they would fight off the Russians and it all going badly from there (wonder where we've heard _that_ before) and the Crimean War (1853–1856).**

**Russian America: Alaska, of course! Russia was rather worried about supplying and protecting such a distant colony in case of British attack as a result of The Great Game (remember, Canada doesn't gain independence until July 1, 1867, so Britain could still hit Alaska through Canada at this point). This, along with the overhunting of fur animals and competition from British and American hunters, led them to offer to sell it to America in 1859. But then a certain little war broke out, and the U.S. didn't take them up on their offer until March 30, 1867 at 4 a.m. after an all-night negotiation session. Alaska was a good buy, at two cents per acre, though it wasn't until 1896 with the Klondike gold strike that the investment really began to pay off.**

**Commodore Tattnall: Here's a quote from one of my sources: "During his two years in the Second Opium War, Commodore Josiah Tattnall violated American neutrality while commanding the chartered steamer _Toey-Wan_, when he came to the assistance of a British and French squadron under fire from the Taku Forts at the mouth of the Pei Ho or Hai River. His explanation of his action, "Blood is thicker than water", subsequently became a famous slogan." The phrase was certainly around long before that, but it was really that event that hit it off. Have I mentioned I love it when history backs up what I plan to have my characters think? I admit I had another of those squee-moments when I read about this.  
><strong>

**America's symptoms: If I wasn't completely clear, seven of the southern states were threatening to secede at this point and it's not having a good effect on the person made up of all of them. America really shouldn't have been allowed to leave the country in his condition, but I get the feeling he really, really wanted to be anywhere but home right now with all the shouting going on between his states. Anything to take his mind off his problems...not that they did, as you see here. At the election of Republican and noted abolitionist sympathizer Abraham Lincoln, seven states did secede and four more followed when Lincoln requested a volunteer army. The southern states argued, among other things, that what they were doing was just like what the colonies did with Britain, that their voices weren't being heard (at least not heard loudly enough), that the federal government had no right to messing in state business, and that they could live and subjugate people however they pleased, thank you very much.**

**"The lion that's just caught the red-crowned crane.": The lion is an animal symbol of England (one of the more prominent ones, anyway) and the crane, especially the red-crowned crane is a national animal symbol of China.**

**Victorian knickers: England's currently in heart of the Victorian Era, in all its fusty, monocled glory. Be glad I didn't have him speak like a terribly stereotyped manner, what?**

**European neutrality: The Union really, really didn't want any European intervention on either side of the conflict, considered it an internal affair to be settled internally. The Confederacy, on the other hand, based much of their bid for freedom on the hope that Britain's large textiles industry would cause them to help the cotton-pickin' South, and where Britain went France would follow. This wish was called King Cotton. But the Union mostly got what it wanted. Mostly. And that's the topic of the next flashback…**


	10. Chapter 9

**WARNING: It gets a little gross at a few points, and there's a bit of attempted self-harm. You have been warned.**

**Special editing thanks go to the two individuals I will only refer to as America and France. You know who you are :D**

**Dark-Fate17: Er, yes, sorry about that. It's all y'all's fault! I can't help it if I get marvelous reviews! :| That was a monstrously huge chapter all around —5,000 words. And this one's 6,100! O.O**

**ScatteredSands: I'm so glad you think my chapter...groovy. Are you a time traveler, perchance? Hmm, I'm sorry if I wasn't clear enough in the chapter, but he's in China right now. I think I'll go put in more hints then. Though it would have been fun if he *had* passed out at the sight of RedJumpsuit!England, probably with an amusing tree-falling thump to the ground, this is sadly not that kind of fic. Instead it's a boring old "life-flash-in-front-of-your-eyes" thing.**

**MikkiHasACookieForYou: Thanks! It's one of my life's dreams to be able to make people say "owefiwlfbvwlig" as much as possible. *nods sagely* And yes, England can be a royal ass at times, and so can America, but they're still such sympathetic characters that I can't help but love them. This chapter also happens to be about the Civil War, so have fun here!**

**vesana: *hugs* Somehow all of my writing skills disappear when I try to accept praise. At least they're better than my speaking skills on the matter! I'm so pleased you and all the other Brits who read this think I do England and his history justice. If you can think of a better summary for this, please tell me! I'm far too long-winded to be good at summaries.**

**And I admit, when I first saw him in the jumpsuit, I thought "Whoa, race car driver!" And then the, er, other things...Hey, if one has a love for one's own country, is that narcissism or patriotism? Hm.**

**How could the Punmaster berate anyone for a pun? More like give you a medal!**

* * *

><p><em>America's White House office, 1872<em>

_ An angry America sits in his office, waiting for England. Over the long centuries of his life he's been angry with England so many times he almost feels like a connoisseur of the many different flavors it can take. _

_When he was young he knew well the bright sugary shock of indignant youth when England would insist on him taking a bath or eating his vegetables. _

_He's tasted the aching cold and wistful sweetness of the months spent alone at night on his bed when England was gone, small hands clutching one of the man's old shirts as he miserably rubbed his face into his pillow, hating that England seemed to value his job over his own brother._

_He's tasted the hot spiciness of righteous fury often enough, the bright flame roaring over his tongue and through his veins as his people shrieked for justice against the oppressor. He's tasted the sandpaper acid of long arguments with nothing resolved, nothing gained._

_He's tasted the sweet, fiery, intoxicatingly annoying liqueur whenever the man insults him with that infamous smirk. This kind he loves to hate, hates to love, knows how bad it is for him but insults England back anyway just to feel the savory flares on his tongue again._

_But this time, it tastes cold and flat and bitter, feels like a thick wad of cotton caught at the back of his mouth, and it slips heavily down to curl and twist tightly in his stomach._

_ It tastes like betrayal._

~o0O0o~

_War is madness, the poets say. Madness lies in letting yourself care about the enemy, care about anything and anybody, really. At least in most wars a soldier has the luxury of hating his foes if he wishes, of loathing strong enough to drive a bayonet into the skull of another human being. But when you are the enemy and the enemy is you? Hatred then is an unaffordable luxury, and caring is worse. So America sat in his prison as he warred with himself, made peace with himself, hated himself and loved himself. As the South strained to leave and the North strained to keep, America would feel the stitches in his side stretch and snap under the tension, and he'd wonder distantly when he'd do the same. His mind already went long ago; it was only a matter of time when his body did too._

_Throughout the Civil War President Lincoln took it upon himself to visit America every day or so in his chambers below the White House. America might be twitching in fitful, nightmare-filled sleep on his cot or staring blankly into the bare stone wall as if he could see through it to the fields where he died again and again. He might be halfway coherent or absolutely raving or, in one memorable incident, delicately carving with a fingernail the uniforms on the toy soldiers he had fashioned out of handfuls of stone pulled directly out of the sheer wall. Even after every button was perfect, he never added faces; instead he just lay on his stomach on the floor and played with them, cooing in what sounded like the languages of the natives._

_The only blessing in all this was that he never showed signs of harming any of his people, his brutal strength never lashing out in violence. If he did there was no way they could have stopped him, not when he drew with one finger thrust into the stone floor pictures of lightning-clad birds and seal-women and horned, bearded serpents._

_There was one small rabbit with wings in the very corner that Lincoln once asked about, since he did not remember any of those in his readings on mythology. America just grinned mischievously, babbled something about belief, and carefully drew an equally tiny winged pig next to it. _

_Due to his seeming docility they at one point made the mistake of giving America silverware with his meals. He had picked up his spoon, pupils dark and too-large, his smile like the ugly gashes in his body, and reached down toward one of the many suppurating growths visible under his skin as if to carve it from his own flesh. A horrified Lincoln tore the utensil from his grasp and threw it from the room, and America pouted like he had been told he would get no dessert and had to go to bed early._

_Every afternoon an empty bucket was brought in by a silent manservant and placed in the corner. Every afternoon a bucket was taken away, sloshing with blood-streaked vomit and pus and every other bodily fluid known to mankind. Every afternoon a thick pile of bandages was left by the manservant, and every afternoon he took away the blood-soaked cloth applied only yesterday. Every afternoon America would chortle for reasons only he knew as he peeled off the red-soaked bandages. Under America's thin skin dark bruises appeared and vanished, arteries bursting and healing, and as he became thinner his cancers became easier and easier to see, twitching and roiling under the skin as they fought against each other to consume his body the better. _

_He permitted no doctor near him despite it all; he had been quite firm, though incoherent, about that, and though often his cognizance was reduced to a near-animalistic state, he usually retained enough presence of mind to see to his own wounds, to reach for the bucket when he attempted to rid himself of the corruption churning poisonously inside him._

_Even in the heights of his mania he was adamant England not be sent for or allowed to see him when he was in the capital on business, but he allowed Canada to approach him, even gently see to the injuries on his back he couldn't reach. He always knew when either set foot on his soil, and there would be times when Lincoln would be peacefully reading near his sleeping nation when America would suddenly jolt upright, say something about red scone fairies or purple maple bears, and flop back into unconsciousness._

_Whatever his country's state, Lincoln would tell him the news of the war and the world and spend an hour or two with him. He'd bounce ideas off the insensate or insensible nation, outline his speeches, one-sidedly discuss tactics, and just provide a soothing voice as America once again counted the number of threads in his sheets in Finnish or Chinese or Navajo or Old Scots._

_One day Lincoln had hesitated before speaking his news. America seemed at least partially aware today; there was a chance he might be understood. Finally he wet his lips and spoke. "America. Something has happened. The Confederates ordered a ship—the CSS _Alabama_—to be built by John Laird and Sons Company in Birkenhead, and it was just recently put to sea."_

_No response._

"_Birkenhead's in Britain, America. In England."_

_No response._

"_The _Alabama_ was sold to the Confederates with the permission of the British Government. They're violating their neutrality, America."_

_America had looked at him blankly, blinked, and then began running around the room with his arms held stiffly horizontal, outstretched at his sides, making a droning noise in the back of his throat. Lincoln just sighed, rubbed his forehead wearily, and went back to trying to make able-bodied soldiers somehow appear out of the woodwork._

_The war didn't last forever. By 1866 America was a good deal saner, and began to remember with varying levels of embarrassment, disgust, and horror what had happened over the past five years. Now that America had regained enough sentience to understand the news about the _Alabama _and other Confederate ships and not just feel the words echo __deafly __ through his skull…it had hurt. It had hurt more than he expected it to, and he hated that realization._

~o0O0o~

_Their meeting today is supposed to resolve the tensions over the Alabama Claims, as they are called, and as far as diplomacy and international relations go it's a good move to settle things down._

_It's a very politically savvy move by England, he admits, bitterly. The United States is beginning to recover from the destruction of the war, beginning to grow in power and size again. In a few decades he'll be a force to be reckoned with, an ally the British Empire would be glad to have._

_But America's not feeling particularly amenable to alliances or forgiveness at the moment. The anger has been sitting on his fuzzy tongue for a few years now, its acid eating away thickly at his thoughts._

_He should be grateful he's getting anything at all, really. The previous Prime Minister had been completely been against paying even a penny for what those ships did, after all. At least now he'll get some sort of literal payback for what the ships had done. Can he really expect more from someone like England? He seemed almost sympathetic in China, promised to stay out of America's war, and then he turned around and ordered those ships built, gave the Confederacy his tacit permission and support._

_America's brooding is interrupted as England finally paces in, each step hitting the ground with a definitive snap from his booted feet. He's barely at their table when he begins to speak, an envelope in his outstretched, gloved hand. "Here are your reparations, America. Let's get this sham over with so I can get out of this filthy country."_

"_Wait a moment." America doesn't take the offering practically thrust into his face, doesn't even unfold his arms from their crossed, confrontational arrangement. He's wanted to try something for a long while, and he's finally in a position to make Red England obey. "Take off that cloak of yours first. There's a hook by the door and everything." _

"_That's absolutely preposterous, why on Earth would I—"_

_America smiles with false innocence. "It's the polite thing to do. Humor me for once, old man. It'll help this go faster."_

"_Ha! I'm the one who taught you manners in the first place, _boy. _You have no place to lecture me on politeness." Nevertheless he strides back to the door and hangs up the cloak, all the while muttering about pathetic little countries too weak to look the British Empire in the face. He walks back, all the while muttering about how he hates how often he finds himself humoring America._

_America can't help but be a little amused at the change. He knows England far too well, both of him._

_The older nation gazes at the envelope in silence for a moment. "Consider it an…apology of sorts."_

_ "Are you admitting your guilt?"_

_ "No, of course not, the British Empire is not guilty of anything. This is expressing regret for what the ships did, not any imaginary culpability of ours."_

"_England, you aided the Confederacy, indirectly was the source of countless deaths and ship sinkings…and you think a stack of cash years after the fact will somehow make it all better? Maybe to my government, but not to _me_," America barks. He decided before this meeting to hold back his temper as long as possible, but this attitude of England's isn't helping in the least._

"_No, I just…" his hand waves futilely as he searches for the right words. More like excuses, America knows, and his jaw clenches tighter._

_Finally his voice gains traction on a different path. "America, is there an absolute ruler of your country?"_

"_No king, remember?" he snarks back. _

"_So no person in your country has the power to command or deny anything and everything?"_

"_The President had power, sure, but he can't do whatever he wants. What the hell are you going on about?" _

"_Even you, the nation itself?"_

"_What're you talking about, of course I can't. Out with it, already, England."_

"…_sometimes I forget how dense you can be," he mumbles. _

"_What?"_

"_Well, it's the same with me, America. I cannot wave my wand and get anything I want, I cannot force whatever I want in my country. The ships were built by a company of mine, but not by me; hell, I didn't even know about it until the news hit the papers. Releasing the _Alabama_ even went against public opinion, but my Prime Minister and Foreign Secretary did it anyway. 'Commerce is commerce,' they told me, the bastards." Though his voice remains as controlled and arrogant as ever, his hands are stretched towards America, palms up, mutely pleading. _

_ America claps, slow and sarcastic. "Impressive, England, very persuasive. How long did it take you to think up such nice lies?" _

"_They're not! The _humans_ may think otherwise, but we don't control their actions any more than they control the divisions of their own cells. You know well how stupid one's citizens can be; didn't one of your senators at the reparation negotiations ask for two _billion_ dollars or Canada or some such rot? I'm my people as a whole, not my government, and you bloody well know this so why the hell am I defending myself over it?" _

_America rolls his eyes, a bitter twist to his smile. "You sure there wasn't anything in your twisted old heart that _wanted_ to help the Confederacy? Revenge for the Revolution, maybe? Any 'I'll show America what if feels like, the wanker. He'll rue the day he left me!' in that head of yours?" _

_England utterly shocked for the briefest second, then slams his hands down on the table with a crash, face flushed and nostrils flared. "What? That's—No there isn't, wasn't, and hasn't been—since at least 1814!"_

_ "Y'know, England, I'd really like to believe you, but you and your people's actions aren't exactly backing you up on this." It's the truth; beneath the raspy fibers of anger still clogging his throat he desperately wants to believe England himself had no hand in it all._

"_Don't you remember the Manchester letter? There's some proof for you right there, and those men were even in the midst of the blockade-caused Lancashire Cotton Famine when they pledged their support to the anti-slavery cause! Despite the fact that the cotton shortage put them from the most prosperous workers to the poorest, they _still_ supported Lincoln and the Union." _

"_It was cute, but a single letter doesn't change—"_

_But England's shouting now, for once the one barreling over _America's_ voice, words flying out of him with a desperate haste America's never heard from him before. "And the Proclamation—good God, America, _especially_ after that Emancipation Proclamation of yours. My people abolished slavery decades ago, know how morally repugnant it is; how could we have possibly decided to help the South after it became a war about _that_?" _

_He stands there for a long moment, bright red and panting, fists clenched tightly at his sides, before slowly sinking into a chair. He slumps, head in his hands, as he waits for America to speak or shout or attack him or throw him out._

_America can feel his hackles gradually relax, tension trickling out of his shoulders and jaw as the last of his anger untangles itself and dissolves. England's made an offering, in his way; it's time for him to do the same._

"_I was…hurt." America carefully looks away from his companion as he reveals his weakness, his cowardice. "I felt like you betrayed my—our—trust."_

"…_I can see how you might come to believe that. But please, America, understand. I did- _do_ not mean to- to hurt you. With what the ships did to your people or…in any other way." The last part is barely audible, a mere murmur, but it holds more power than all of their shouts from just a minute before._

_It reverberates through them both for a moment._

_ America studies the grain of the wood in the table intently. "I wouldn't, either. Hurt you, I mean."_

_ They let the silence fall gently between them, the words spoken floating softly down in pale flakes to pile in comfortable heaps around the two. When England speaks again, it's subdued, quiet. It does not break the silence so much as trickles through it.  
><em>

"_Did you become the Union, America? During the war? Whenever I visited the White House they said you were 'out'." His thick eyebrows furrow darkly at the last word._

_America slides quickly past the implied question. He swore to himself hundreds of times over the years that England will never know exactly what happened to him during the war., and if Canada keeps his mouth shut he never will. "No, I stayed America, all of America—a really crazy America, but still America. They wanted to leave, but I wouldn't let them, you see. They only way they could leave was if I let them or enough of the world recognized them as a country, and you guys didn't do it and I didn't let go. I know I sound like a giant hypocrite right now, but…I need to thank you for that, England."_

"_For not recognizing them? I told you, after the Proclamation I wouldn't touch them with a red-hot poker. To my people their cause was like France on one of his Naked Days." He rubs his chin, amusement tugging at the corners of his lips. "Actually, France and a hot poker on Naked Day, hmm…"_

"_No, not that. For…letting me go in 1783."_

_England looks away, clears his throat. "Ah. Well. At the time I was convinced you would come crawling back to grovel at my feet soon enough, so it didn't bother me much." England's only a good liar when he's red, and America's words come from out of the blue._

_ He grins. "You just keep saying that, England. We both would have been hurt even worse if you hadn't." Hurt too much, America knows all too well now, too much for a colony just out of adolescence, but not too much for an enormous, ancient empire. He doesn't say this, though, because he still had _some_ pride left and because England knows it all already. It's why he let go when he could have used the full might of Empire on his wayward colony, crushed him and burned him and rebuilt him however he wanted._

_ "Plonker. I was just cutting my losses and turning to more lucrative opportunities." England huffs out a contemptuous breath, but the spots of color high on his cheeks tell a different story._

_ "Sure, sure." It's his most obnoxious, England-infuriating grin. America reaches down, picks up the long-forgotten envelope. Neglecting it probably isn't the best way to handle a check for $15.5 million dollars, even if it is more symbolic than anything else. _

_ "Belt up, git."_

_ "You realize I still have no idea what "git" means, right?"_

_ "It means _you_, git."_

_ "Well, then a git must be the most amazing, awesome, and American person in the whole world!"_

_ England rolls his eyes, and it's his turn to say "Sure, sure" through the curve of the slightest of smiles._

_ America beams back. "You're just jealous you're not as- as _gittish_ as me. My _gitosity_ is overpowering. Bow before my sheer _gititude_."_

_ He raises his eyes to the ceiling as if to ask for patience, but America can see his shoulders shaking as he attempts to hold back a laugh. "I'll be sure to, ah, 'git' to it as soon as possible."_

_ "You better. Don't make me come 'git' you." _

_England's mouth twitches helplessly into a smile, but with his admittedly impressive self-control manages to keep from laughing. "Oh, and before I for'git', America, what day of the week is it?"_

_ "Wednesday, why?"_

_ "Hmm. Then I still have a few days to find an appropriate poker. Care to join me?"_

_ America laughs and waves the envelope. "Sorry, man, I've got to go bring home the British bacon. I'll join you next time you go Frenchie-hunting for sure though. Don't kill him too badly, and have fun."_

_ England smirks and rubs his hands together with joyful malice. "I most certainly will. I haven't been on a good frog hunt in ages."_

_ "It's been good to see you, England. Stop by again sometime, all right?" Past the necessary, traditional saying of the phrases, he actually means it. _

_ "Likewise, America. Feel free to nip over and have tea and a biscuit or two." And America can tell he means it too._

_ America grins playfully. "Aw, no way, man. Tea's gross! The harbor water couldn't even make it nastier, and there were dead dogs floating in it in those days!" _

_ England just gives him another of those barely-there smiles and walks to the door. He throws the broad folds of the long scarlet cloak over his shoulders, and America watches as the lines of his face tighten, shift to form Red England's features. He flicks a gloved hand to the check in America's hands. "I'm afraid that pocket change is all you'll be getting out of me. And now, if you'll excuse me," though his tone says quite clearly that yes, America _will _excuse him or _things_ will happen, "I have far more important business to attend to."_

_ Boots clicking on the floor once again, he strides back out of the room as if nothing happened, nothing started, nothing mended, gained, _changed_. But that's just Red England being Red England. _

_ America is left to his empty office, smiling inanely to himself and wondering how the man always manages to sweep away so dramatically at the ends of their conversations._

~o0O0o~

Relations improved, and they became allies of a sort, strange, quarrelsome allies that never quite broke apart.

America with good relations, even an alliance, with _England_? Not so long ago he would have laughed in the thought's face. But now? He didn't mind it as much as he thought he might.

It was like the early 1700s all over again…except that it wasn't, in every possible way. He'd find himself having awkward tea with Queen Victoria, England shooting him beetle-browed Looks whenever he used the wrong spoon or piled in what England considered too much sugar. America would give him Looks back, and they'd sit glaring at each other until the Queen gave a polite little cough into her handkerchief. They'd both immediately turn back to the terrifying old lady with sheepish, slightly desperate grins, and the endless small talk about the weather and naval bombardment would start up again. Red England, being unfit for polite company, was never present for those meetings, or for the equally awkward dinners at the White House with new Presidents still trying to comprehend that gentleman across from them was the British Empire in flesh and the bouncy young man needling him at every opportunity was their own nation.

Heck, they still do all that today. Looking back, it's strange how quickly their relationship eased into a sort of comfortable antagonism, an easy, amicable antipathy, and never really left. If anything, they've gotten closer, what with the whole "Special Relationship" that even today he can't keep from blushing at. And the first step towards that, well, that was when America realized that Red England was not for forever, and he was not quite as invincible as he seemed.

* * *

><p><strong>It's so nice to see the boys actually work out some of their problems for once! That's right, use your words, not your swords. What did y'all think of the toy soldiers? They were my favorite part—especially the significance of them having no faces. And what do you think the bit with the flying mint bunny meant? Not to mention the mint bunny with a flying pig. After all, when pigs fly... I have a good many interesting ideas in these directions, but I'm not going to limit the possibilities by actually picking one yet. And why do you think America chortled when peeling off the bandages?<br>**

**A note about America's madness: I've read a lot of different fics about how America (the person) went through the Civil War, everything from split personalities to Alien-esque chest-bursting. Here's why I did it this way: it follows the logic my earlier idea that a mother country feels its colony's pain and such until it agrees to give it independence, that or until enough other nations of the world recognize the existence of the new sovereign nation. So if a rebellion is sparked but dies out then no new nation-people are created, only if they are victorious. So America doesn't split into two or develop other personalities. Instead his body tries to consume itself (freaky moving cancer/creature/things visibly moving under the skin is a gross-out for me), and his mind twists and breaks under the strain of fighting himself. So he goes insane. Was that clear enough in the story? Is this idea convincing?  
><strong>

**A note about gits: Yes, America knows what a git is; he's just having fun. You don't grow up under England's care without figuring some things out.**

**A note about France and England: If you're put off by how malicious England is acting towards France, I have reasons for why he's like he is. During this era France and England are starting to be found on the same side of the battlefield as allies instead of facing against each other on opposite sides, and it's beginning to change their relationship. Where before they were sworn enemies (especially for England with a lingering grudge for the Norman Invasion) who genuinely took great pleasure in hurting the other, now they're starting to switch into the amiable loathing of the World Wars and later years. At this point in history, though, they're in the transitioning between these two relationships of very different hatred.**

**HISTORICAL NOTES**

**The American Civil War: North against South, Union against Confederate. The North was industrial, with small farms and an overall distaste for slavery. The South was agricultural, with large plantations worked by slaves and poor whites, with a large, landed aristocracy in all but name. The war was particularly nasty due of the viciousness only fighting against family seems to cause - it was called the Brother's War for a reason. The lines of who supported what were not clear and sharp but rather jagged and torn, and sometimes people in the same family would end up on opposite sides of the battlefield. It was "brother against brother, father against son, kith against kin of every degree." I can only imagine what the state-people went through during all of it.**

**"lightning-clad birds and seal-women and serpents with horns and beards." Thunderbirds, selkies, and Asian dragons, of course! What do you think I mean with the whole winged-pig business? I haven't quite decided myself, though I've certainly a few interesting ideas…**

**America acting like an airplane: The Wright Brothers don't fly for another forty years, I know. But in my head!canon, you see, America is such a technology-based, imaginative, and above all forward-looking nation and person (sometimes looking so far off into the distant future that he trips over what's right in front of him) that he occasionally gets brief, strange glimpses into the future along with his usual crazy ideas. It's not anything magical or useful - he just sometimes has, sorta, reverse deja vu, I guess you could call it. You'll see another amusing example in eighty years or so.**

**Manchester Letter and Lancashire Cotton Famine: The Cotton Famine was caused by the blockade put on the South's ports by the Union. And since the Empire's large textiles industry depended heavily on cotton from the South, well…The textiles workers went very quickly from being some of the most prosperous of the working class to some of the poorest. Some, because of the blockade, were therefore supportive of the Confederate cause if it would get their cotton back, but most of them, almost all of the British working class in fact, were adorably noble-minded despite it. A resolution of support for the Union and the abolitionist cause was drafted by the inhabitants of Manchester and sent to Lincoln, who responded in a rather famous letter that he thought they were all "like, totally awesome for not being lame and all like those southern losers." Well, not quite in those words. ;) And that, my friends, is why there is a statue of an American Civil War President in Manchester, U.K.**

**The Emancipation Proclamation: Before this the War was not specifically, blatantly, about slavery, and the South could still claim it was mostly about state's rights and vastly different ways of life and ways of thinking. After the Proclamation, it was suddenly also a moral war to free the slaves, and the European nations, who had mostly gotten rid of their slavery decades earlier, suddenly started pretending they all had to go to their grandmothers' funerals whenever the South wanted to visit to talk about supporting or recognizing them. So no country ever recognized the Confederacy as a country, and the Forever Alone South went back to whipping slaves and playing by itself in fluffy mountains of cotton.**

**The Alabama Claims: The CSS Alabama, a screw sloop-of-war and commerce raider, was built in 1862 for the Confederate States Navy by a British company in the U.K.**

**There were several other ships built or somehow aided in their path to join the Confederacy by some British captains and Southern sympathizers. What particularly ticked off the Union was that the British PM and Foreign Secretary both allowed the Alabama to be built and sold despite the weight of public opinion against it and the protestations of the American legation in London.**

**Funny story: The Alabama's new captain, Semmes, gave a recruitment speech to some British sailors about the gloriousness of the Southern cause and how they should definitely sign up for a voyage of unknown length and destiny. The figurative sound of crickets filled his ears. He then offered money upon signing up, double wages, paid in gold, and promised more prizes for sinking Union ships, at which point he was every crewman's favoritest person ever. This is all rather amusing because, you see, the ship's own motto was "God helps those who help themselves."**

**Northerners were, unsurprisingly, not pleased about British-built, British-armed, and often British-crewed ships sinking their boats as their country of origin continued to declare its neutrality. After the war, the U.S. demanded reparations for the damage caused by the ships which Lord Palmerston, the same jerk of a PM who allowed their sale in the first place, flatly refused to pay. The debate raged on for years and eventually went to arbitration at Geneva, where the new PM, William Gladstone, who wanted a bit of peace about the whole thing and wanted an ally in the U.S., agreed to pay (but argued the numbers down a bit first).**

**You'll never guess the name of the man who represented Britain during the international Alabama tribunal: Sir Alexander Cockburn! I near about fell out of my chair when I saw this. Sadly, I am reasonably certain the two were not related, despite the name, since one was Scottish and the other English. BUT STILL. How many Cockburns are there, anyway?**

**One of the American senators did indeed ask for $2 billion or Canada in recompense, at which point everyone else looked at him and said "Hahaha no." Do you want to know how much that is in current money? $3.98 trillion. TRILLION. Instead they ended up with the relatively mild $15.5 million, or $30.8 billion in today's dollars, and some re-negotiations of some nice Canadian fishing, all part of the Treaty of Washington in 1871. In this, the British apologized for the destruction caused by the ships while simultaneously admitting no guilt, which is such an England reaction I just had to laugh.**

**Queen Victoria: Yes, I know she's a bit OOC with the whole naval bombardment thing, but it was just too funny to resist!  
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**Care to take a guess at what comes next?  
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	11. Chapter 10

**Bit of a shorter one today, lads. But then again, after the last two, _anything_ would seem shorter, da?**

**CadetJen: You can't see it, but I grinned like an idiot for a full five minutes after reading your review. Despite my complaining about it, I really have to thank you for getting me addicted—this is the longest, most serious, deepest, and probably the best thing I have ever written. As for your stunning good (or food) looks and athleticism…I call you America for more than one reason, you know. I'm really bad at gracefully accepting compliments, especially in person, so, er, yeah. Yeah. Thanks. *bad poker face rageface* And now I'll go not print out your review and not hide it somewhere special. Not at all.**

**vesana: Thanks! Despite his mind breaking, I like to think that the America we know and love was somewhere underneath the insanity the whole time, and it shows through his refusal to hurt any of his people or Canada no matter how crazy he was.**

**I giggled as I wrote it, too ;) I have to admit, 'git' is one of my favorite words. It just clicks against the palate, doesn't it? So many of our obscenities feel gross and squishy, but 'git' just delightfully snaps out.**

**ScatteredSands: I knew it! Anyone aside from America anyone who thinks 'gitosity' is an awesome word _has _to be from the 70s ;D And if you're an awful person, I'm worse since although I didn't like having to put him through that, I utterly enjoyed myself while thinking up new ways to make him crazy.**

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><p><em>Temporary War Room, France: November 1917, World War I<em>

_America walks into the conference room appointed them with his usual long, confident strides, bright grin already affixed to his face and paragraphs ready to spill from his mouth, but he can't help but pause at the sight of the man waiting for him._

_He knows England—despite his disdainful attitude—would have worn his best uniform for meeting his newest and most important ally in the Great War, but the brown dye is paled and leached away by multiple washings and, though the ironed creases are as ramrod-straight as his spine, the cloth at elbows and knees is worn visibly thin. _

_America double-takes. Dull brown—where has that vibrant red gone? He knows, in a distant sort of way, that the British military abandoned their bright uniforms a few years ago so they didn't stick out like sore thumbs any more than they already did with the eyebrows and the constant smell of burnt food, but he supposes it never really occurred to him that England himself would do the same. It was—is—unthinkable. A military England without his red uniform is jarring, unbalancing. To America, Red England _is_ British war, yet here England sits in brown as muddy and despairing as his trenches, as flat and tired as the creases at the corners of his eyes._

_The scarlet cloak is still present, though, thrown over the end of the table in those endless folds of bloody red, and America wonders at how relieved he finds himself at seeing the old bastard. It at least is its usual dramatic, sweeping self, lines of England's tiny repairing stitches webbed all across it. _

"_It's about time you got your arse here, idiot. I've been waiting for ages," England grumbles. They both know England's not just talking about America's arrival at the meeting room._

_America taps Texas with a finger. "Of course, England, I can't just let Mexico take these babies back. I need them if I want to see anything on your face past those fuzzy caterpillars!" He laughs and, to his surprise, sneezes._

_England's hand is at his forehead in a moment, a scowl appearing like a clenching fist. "You feel a tad warm, America. How's the old economy doing?"_

"_Fine. Great, actually, with the build up for the war."_

"_Hmmm."_

"_It's probably just the dust in this old room of yours, England. Doesn't France have anything classier to welcome his hero with? Where is he, anyway?_

"_France is…indisposed. And don't end a sentence in a preposition. Yes…the dust and rubble, that must be it." England still looks pensive, though. America searches for something to distract the old man from his endless worrying. Sometimes the mighty British Empire is such a mother hen._

"_Wait, England, did I just catch you _caring_ for a minute there?"_

_He snatches his hand back from where it still rests on America's forehead. England's suitably sidetracked now, but America mourns the loss of its cool presence. "What? Certainly not, you berk. I was merely concerned about the health of an ally. It makes my job a good deal more difficult if you prats get ill and I have to shoulder even more of the burden of the war than I already am. I'd do the same for any ally."_

_America's snicker somehow turns into a cough. "What, even France?"_

_He sighs, rubs his forehead. "Yes. I've had to bandage him up several times already."_

"_And Russia?_

"_Well, Russia's…Russia. He's a special case. My point is still valid."_

"_What's going on with him, anyway?"_

"_I heard there was a bit of unrest—hopefully it'll all blow over soon and he can go back to throwing his people into machine gun fire."_

"_Ouch, England. Harsh much?"_

"_Once you get into this war, America, you'll very quickly learn why I am the way I am right now." He looks into the distance to only something he can see, and regret and weariness washes across his face. He whispers, so quietly it must be meant for only his own ears, "Sometimes I wonder when war stopped being fun."_

_They let the silence stretch between them for a minute. It is surprisingly relaxed—this whole meeting is—as far as encounters with England go. America supposes three years of brutal trench warfare might calm down even England. _

_The moment ends in a blink as England turns back to America. "Now you no doubt have much to prepare for if you're to be at all useful. We'll have more to discuss in a few days about supplies and troop deliveries and such." He waves a dismissive hand._

"_Yup. I'll send you the rest of the paperwork and maps and stuff in a day or two once we get everything sorted out. I've gotta go meet with my people about that now, actually. We'll be meeting to plan more in-depth soon, right?"_

"_Most certainly, if we're to coordinate properly to win this blasted thing."_

_America leaps to his feet and heads to the exit with a backwards wave. "See ya then, England!"_

"_America?" _

_He pauses at the door. "Yeah?"_

_There's something mumbled that might have been a 'thank you' with a hasty "Just don't be late for a war again, you understand?" on its tail._

"_Haven't you heard, England? This is the war to end all wars." America laughs again, which somehow ends in another sneeze—doesn't France have maids to do the dusting or something?—and bounces out._

~o0O0o~_  
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And so America entered the war and saved the Allies like the hero he was. It was only a few months after that day that the 1918 Influenza Pandemic began. What a fool he had been to ignore the signs—but who could have anticipated something like _that_ on top of a war that horrific?

The Great War changed everything, broke the back of every empire whether they admitted it or not. It was a new age, a new breed of war and a new breed of peace. In the trenches there was as much place for red coats and sweeping gestures as there were for Poland's ponies. No, that war and the one after were wars of dank brown mud and dingy green and bitter biting rain. And so England packed away his reds, put Red England back in his closet, and donned the greens and browns of camouflage and grime. Even the infamous scarlet mantle ended up put away, carefully protected against the gnawing jaws of time. For though it seemed he could not use it for this particular war, afterward England would need its power again. Surely. Rule Britannia forever…?

Nevertheless, World War I was the beginning of the end of the British Empire, the slow but inevitable burial of the man England was. Yet it was not the last time America saw England in red.

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><p><strong><span>America entered the war<span> in April 6, 1917. I'm imagining for this scene America's been too busy figuring out stuff at home and England's been too busy fighting for them to really have a conversation beyond "Hey I'm joining the war!" and "Too bloody right you are. Get your arse down here already." So this is the first time they've actually been able to talk.  
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**Mexico taking Texas: The Zimmermann Telegram was an intercepted (and decoded by British intelligence) message from German Foreign Secretary Arthur Zimmermann to his ambassador to Mexico, Heinrich von Eckardt on January 16, 1917. It was sent in anticipation of the resumption of unrestricted submarine warfare in the next month, which was thought to bring still-neutral America into the war on the side of the Allies since President Wilson had made it rather clear how much he didn't like that sort of ungentlemanly warfare. The Telegram told Eckhardt that if the U.S. looked like it was going to jump into the fray, he was to approach the Mexican government with a proposal for military alliance, a big stack of cash from Germany, and the promise of Texas, New Mexico, and Arizona if they invaded the U.S. This would have distracted America just a bit, would it not? But then British intelligence passed on the translated and decoded telegram (while simultaneously pretending no, they hadn't figured out the German codes, and no, they weren't snooping on America's communications). It was at that point that _die Scheisse_ hit _der __Lüfter_.**

**After it all came out, Mexico, who wasn't an idiot, politely told Germany to go to hell in response. One of the (several) reasons why attacking America was a bad idea was even if they _did_ manage to seize those states, they would then have to pacify the large, English-speaking, and above all _well-armed_ populace. Ah, Texas and their beloved Second Amendment!**

**England's abandonment of the red: The reign of red ended at the end of the 19th and beginning of the 20th century as advances in weapons technology and Britain's Great Game against Russia in the Middle East and Central Asia showed that it was, in fact, a very bad idea to be bright red in the middle of a desert when a few properly aimed guns could take men down until the sand matched the color of their wool coats. Khaki service dress was correspondingly adopted in 1902 and brown uniforms were worn in World War I. I think that England being who he is, though, he would have tried to hold on to the past represented in his reds for as long as possible and only put away his scarlet cloak as the war wore on and its weakness in this sort of war was revealed.**

**An indisposed France: How do you manage to be a pervy woobie, France? During the World Wars the French military took heavy losses, the country was torn by bombardment and the advancing line of German occupation, and materiel (not _material_) was exhausted beyond belief. I have the feeling France spent a lot of time bleeding out on a cot with barely the strength to feel up the nurses. Ah, France. I simultaneously have the urge to hug you and stay as far away from your wandering hands as possible.**

**A bit of unrest in Russia: Ever heard of something called the Bolshevik revolution? Red October? Russia found his own power in scarlet…a power called Soviet Russia. Interesting note: What was October in Russia was actually November in the Gregorian calendar we use today and most of us used then. So as England and America speak the Glorious Revolution is happening!**

**The Revolution was caused in part by dissatisfaction with Russia's high wartime casualty rate (see the line about 'throwing his men into machine gun fire') and general military suckishness on their side of the war. Once the Bolsheviks took control, an armistice was called and negotiations with Germany began in December. As a result, the Treaty of Brest-Litovsk was signed in March 1918, and Germany was ceded huge tracts of land in Ukraine (heheh), Poland, the Baltics, and Finland. Though at first a huge high-five moment for the Germans, they quickly found (to their surprise, for some reason) that trying to hold all that land and manage it properly took rather a lot of manpower that would have been better used to kill enemy soldiers.**

**Oh, and if you go to the Wikipedia page on the October Revolution, there's a painting of a man with a long white scarf…Russia sighting, anyone?**

**"don't be late to a war again": Oh, England, if you only knew… Americans are late to _everything_. It's like we have the need to be the dramatic cavalry rescue at the very end of the movie. Or we like being deux ex machina. In TvTropes parlance, we love our Big Damn Heroes moments. Have fun losing the rest of your lives: tvtropes . org / pmwiki / pmwiki . php / Main / BigDamnHeroes  
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**"the war to end all wars": What with the sheer magnitude and destruction of the war, it certainly seemed so at the time.**

**'doesn't France have maids to do the dusting or something?': Maids to dust that are of French citizenship? French maids. *wiiiiink***

**The Influenza Pandemic of 1918: In my head!canon, nation-people show signs of illness either as a reflection of their economical state or if enough of their people become ill from a particular disease/a disease has enough of an impact on the national culture/consciousness. So America might have developed some of the symptoms of polio in the 40s and 50s even though the numbers of affected children were relatively low.**

**This scene is set in very late 1917, and the first recorded case of the influenza was in January 1918 in Kansas, but I couldn't resist a bit of foreshadowing and more pretendingnottocare!England, and if I _really_ need to I can blame it all on America's wonky future-sense-thing. And for all we know, it really _was_ dusty in the room since all the French maids were busy being nurses desperately trying to save soldiers' lives. Er. Sorry for the mood whiplash there.**

**Early symptoms of the 'flu included sneezing, coughing, and fever, along with a bunch of other stuff I didn't put in because he hasn't really begun to get sick, just is getting the first niggling signs of it. It was especially brutal since it mostly hit young people (e.g. malnourished soldiers stuck in cramped, dirty trenches with injuries and little medical aid). This was unusual because usually diseases like these hit the very young and very old—it's hypothesized that the older generation was mostly spared due to immunity built up in the Russian flu pandemic of 1889. It also hit young people harder because it creates cytokine storms, which hurt those with healthy immune systems more than those with weaker. It's an over-exaggerated response to a pathogen (distantly similar to an allergic reaction) that can create a fatal feedback loop where too many immune cells are activated in the same place and begin to attack the body.**

**The disease killed up to 20% of those infected, as opposed to the usual flu mortality rate of 0.1%. The enormous toll was caused by an extremely high infection rate of 50% and the horrific severity of the symptoms, which varied widely and were beyond nasty. In the U.S., 28% of the population was affected, and worldwide some 500 million (27% of the world's population) were infected. It killed more people than all of the fighting did in WWI (~35 million). Between 50 and 100 million died.**

**It was also known as the Spanish Flu since the newspapers in neutral Spain weren't as censored as the warring nations'. In these the disease's extent and impact was downplayed to simultaneously keep morale alive and make themselves seem less affected to the enemy than they actually were.**

**And on _that_ note, we travel on to the next and last flashback.  
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	12. Chapter 11

**And now for my favorite flashback (and coincidentally the first one I wrote).**

**I have no reviews to respond to! *weeps, considers petty withholding of the last chapter* D:**

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><p><em>England's London home, The Blitz, early 1941 <em>

_America chuckles mischievously to himself as he sneaks up to England's door. He and his Eagle Squadron boys finally have a night off to rest up and prepare for more action, and America's going to put the time to excellent use, yes sirree. He jumps a little when he hears the air-raid sirens go off. He's still not used to the stupid things._

_America hasn't seen England since he was officially welcomed upon arrival in Great Britain a few months before. His country might still be officially neutral, but he and some of his boys just itched to get up in the air and into the fight. In the end he didn't even have to pretend to be Canadian! It was a win all around, really. At the formal meet-and-greet England had stood there unbendingly next to his officials, looking tired and thinner but very much his usual grumpy, eyebrow-ed self and was so undeniably _alive_ that America couldn't help but stand there and grin stupidly for a moment before boisterously shaking his hand. _

_Then and always after England didn't ask when America's finally going to join the war. Too proud, always too proud. Unfortunately America's just as proud, can't admit how he wishes he could help, would do anything to swoop in and save the old man. But his people didn't want to get involved in yet another European war, not when the last one had such a cost. They are all far too busy at home, trying not to starve. America's doing what he can despite the neutrality, sending supplies, loaning battleships...nevertheless he understands now what England meant on that day in 1872. Sometimes you can't change what your country is doing even if you _are_ the country._

_He is shaken out of his gloomy and all-too-familiar thoughts by the blasts of distant explosions, and he hesitates for a moment before concluding they are too far off to need to start worrying. _

_With his night off, now is the perfect time to invite himself over to light up the older nation's evening with his awesome self. As in all things, America now just has to make the perfect, most heroic entrance possible. _

_He pauses outside for just the briefest moment, then throws open the door with a jarring crash. He's already talking as he bursts inside._

"_England! How's it going! You know I had the weirdes—_whoa_" and abruptly finds himself looking at the nastier end of a pistol. Briefly shocked into silence, America stares at the hard green eyes before him. The stillness stretches endlessly between them…and snaps with a nearly audible _twang_ as England calmly puts down the gun and takes a sip from the teacup in his other hand. _

"_Ah. Good evening, America," he says imperturbably. _

_America continues to gape, the words that were so easily rolling off his tongue suddenly nowhere to be found._

_England smirks. "Goodness, America. If I knew I could shut you up just by pointing a gun at you, I'd do it more often."_

"_You- you-" His mind floods with images of suave, impeccably-dressed gentlemen behind gun barrels tossing off one-liners in oh god that accent and that smile and just coolly drinking that tea (except no, tea's nasty, try a martini instead) and defeating villains with awesome gadgets yesyesyes and explosions and damsels swooning and—his deliriously happy imagination is wrenched away as England begins to speak again._

"_You're not about to pass out, are you? It's not as though I can carry your fat self to a bed if you do." The words don't conceal the slight hint of concern in his voice._

_America collapses onto a chair. "Dammit, England! You were so cool until you started with the insults!"_

_England sniffs contemptuously, but he can't hide the pleased pinking of his too-pale cheeks. "Git. At any rate, why are you here?" _

_America bounces upright in his seat and begins gesticulating wildly. "Oh yeah! Well my boys are kicking so much German butt like you wouldn't believe! Just the other day this wing was getting all up in our business but we were like NO WAY MAN and hey are those cookies?"_

"_Biscuits, you twat—"_

"_Well anyway we mmph vroooom and then it was like pewpewpew *crunch* and this sweet flip mrmff never knew what hit him! Kapow! *munchmunch* explosion! Oh yeah and Canadia's *chomp* doing pretty good too, not as awesome as mmfth hero Americans though of course! Ahahahaha! Oh and this one time we—Hey England, your clothes are all wet. What didja do, forget your umbrella again, old man? Ahahaha!" He leans forward and pokes England in one of the damp patches._

_England looks down at the front of his dull green military uniform without much surprise. "No, I must have spilled some tea when you barged in like the uncouth barbarian you are. If you'll excuse me a moment, I'll go change." _

_He stands, even stiffer than the usual stick-up-his-butt-England-stiff, and swiftly strides from the room._

_America shrugs at the prissy Brit's fastidiousness—but dang, that must have been a lot of tea—and reaches for another cookie, only to stop and stare at his hand. _

_There's blood on his forefinger. _

_He feels no pain, has no cut; it certainly isn't his. He stares blankly at it for moment and then turns mechanically to the chair where England was sitting. The wussy floral print is darkened by splotches of ugly red-brown. _

"_England?" A hollowness sets into the pit of his stomach. In the silence he hears a particularly loud explosion in the distance—and a thumping crash from inside the house._

_He leaps to his feet and begins running, running, running, following the drops of red sprinkled down the hallway, his heart nearly bursting in fear and he surges through another door, this time it's England's bedroom and—_

—_England is sprawled on the floor in a smear of blood, unmoving. America frantically begins to unbutton the nation's sodden jacket, cursing himself and his denseness and why didn't he notice something sooner why didn't the prideful old bastard _say_ anything before? He doesn't bother to spare more than a thought for the hot tears rolling down his cheeks, much less wipe them away. His fingers tremble too much, he gives up on the buttons and tears the jacket open to find- to find-_

_England, clothed again in blood red._

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><p><strong>I can't tell you how many times I've read through that, but <em>still<em>…**

**If you're concerned with his health after this scene ends, England wakes up promptly, slaps away America's hands, and starts scolding him about how he'll have to sew the buttons back on. Despite this return to normalcy America freaks out and decides he's getting into this war, no matter what. I love protective!America. The fact that he didn't put two and two before—England's being bombed so he's getting hurt, what a brilliant deduction—it's testament to his legendary denseness. He's not stupid, just doesn't always see the obvious looking into his face. UPDATE: To clarify a bit of confusion, on a dark green cloth like England's WWII uniform, blood would turn it black, and water or tea would turn it a nearly-black green. As seen in the French and Indian War scene, blood also turns red cloth black. Oh, and blood turns water yellow, not red. ...And no, you should _not_ ask me how I know all this.  
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**On the subject of wimpifying England: I really, really hate it when fic writers dealing with the Blitz make England way too hurt and way too wimpy during the whole ordeal. He's 1) the stinkin' British Empire, 2) old enough to have felt pain before and know how to grit his teeth and deal with it, 3) a complete badass even if he's not Red England at the moment, 4) the Blitz wasn't nearly _that _destructive (for reasons I talk about in the historical notes), and 5) England's made up his people and his people are famously stiff-upper-lipping it through the whole thing.**

**If he can at all help it, England never shows weakness, especially to America or France (for rather different reasons), and he's more the sort to nurse his wounds in private rather than show the world his weakness. In this scene, he's surprised by the biggest blast, and it is his body that fails him for a moment after months of bombing and years of rationing, not his mind. And think of this-during the entire conversation with America the air raid is going on. The entire time. And he sits there drinking tea and bickering genially—!**

**So I hope I haven't fallen into the wimpy England trap yet have simultaneously made him as vulnerable as he actually was during this time period—what are your thoughts?**

**"If I knew I could shut you up just by pointing a gun at you, I'd do it more often." : Considering the number of times throughout these flashbacks England has pointed some sort of weapon at America, this is pretty funny/ironic. And every time, America _does_ shut up.**

**A certain British gentleman: This is another one of America's flashes of the future (the character wasn't created until 1953 by Ian Fleming [and based on his awesome self] and the first movie wasn't until 1962 with Dr. No). I have the feeling America is one of James Bond's biggest fanboys...for reasons I'll leave for a later fic. ;D**

**Also, I have no idea how to talk about planes, so it's a good thing America really likes those cookies.**

**Did any of you pick up all the foreshadowing I sprinkled through the scene? My favorite bit was a logical one—England says he must have spilled tea on himself when America barged in, but if you remember with his super-wartime-gun-pointing-reflexes he was iron calm, far calmer than America was. Unfortunately America's too dense to figure that out, at least not when he's got cookies to take care of.**

**HISTORICAL NOTES**

**Here's a timeline of the period to help a bit:**

**France surrenders and armistice is signed: June 22, 1940**

**[So during this period, Great Britain is essentially alone in the war, not including allies like Canada and Australia. More about them later]**

**Soviet Union enters WWII: June 22, 1941 when Germany breaks their non-aggression pact and Operation Barbarossa begins. Foolish, foolish Nazis, poking a snow-covered bear...**

**The U.S.A enters WWII: December 8, 1941 when the Japanese launched the attack on Pearl Harbor, Hawaii. Foolish, foolish Japanese, poking a hunger-crazed eagle...**

**The Blitz was a focused attack on the cities and key industries of Great Britain. It lasted from September 7, 1940 to May 10, 1941, and the assault against London specifically lasted for fifty-seven consecutive nights. More than 40,000 civilian deaths resulted, half of which from London. The Nazi attack had two purposes—it targeted key wartime industries, ports, and airstrips, and it put a psychological pressure on the citizenry that was intended to hasten the surrender of Britain. It failed epically on both counts.**

**For the former goal, part of this was due to the lameness of Nazi intelligence, which often had no idea where the factories they were supposed to be bombing actually were. Nazi strategy was also flaky and easily distracted by shiny objects, leading to them often switch industries and targets without placing sufficient pressure on any one in particular.**

**For the latter goal, despite the bombings, fires, and deaths, the British populace, stiff lips firmly affixed to their faces, kept calm and carried on like nobody's business, helped in no small part by the leadership of PM Winston Churchill. Read some of Churchill's speeches if you want to get a feel for the time, because those things are some the most patriotic, stirring, courageous things I have ever heard. Churchill was a master of rhetoric and a meme factory to boot-he coined phrases like "Battle of Britain," "this was their finest hour," and "the Special Relationship" (oh, and he was a _total_ USxUKxUS fangirl. Seriously, read up on it)**

**'pretend to be canadian': During the Battle of Britain in summer and fall of 1940, American citizens were prohibited from joining in the war under the many U.S. Neutrality Acts. If a citizen defied the strict laws, there was a risk of the loss of their citizenship, imprisonment, and fines. So for those who really, really wanted to join in despite the risks, they snuck into Canada to join their air force and/or misled the British authorities about their origins. For this reason, the true number of Americans serving in the Royal Air Force may never be known.**

**Can you imagine _America_ trying to be Canada or Canadian? He'd start talking about apple pie or something and get kicked out in a minute. Thank goodness things changed so he was able to get in without trying to lie.**

**Eagle Squadron boys: The Eagle Squadrons were three fighter squadrons made up of volunteer pilots from the United States. After France fell, the parts of the Neutrality Acts that limited recruitment, though they were technically still in effect, the authorities had a tendency to be out getting manicures whenever they were supposed to be enforcing them. Finally America-the-person was able to help out at least a little-and to do it and fly at the same time? Awesome.**

**Other nationalities represented in the RAF included Poland, new Zealand, Canada, Czecholslovakia, Australia, Belgium, South Africa, France, Ireland...it was as diverse as Hetalia itself!**

**'...trying not to starve': a little something called the Great Depression. While all the measures taken by the federal government and FDR to lift the country out of the depression did help a little bit, the real thing that kicked the economy back into gear was the industrial adrenaline rush of WWII.**

**Even without the shielding crutch of the red, England's still a badass. He never needed the red for _that_. The red just makes him less human, less affected by emotion, more cruel and ready to take what he wants.**

**And now we go back to Red England, this time in a certain red jumpsuit...**


	13. Chapter 12

**It's the FINAAAL COUNTDOOOWWWN! *guitar solo***

**Ahem.**

**And now we come back to the present day and a certain red jumpsuit, finishing off the last corner of the framing device. The other end of the bookend, if you will.**

**Also, I do not own Jell-O. Thought you might want to know.**

**Who knew threats could make people do what I want? (i.e. review) *rubs hands thoughtfully, scary glint in one eye***

**Captain Arthur Kirkland (x2): ****...why am I not surprised someone named Captain Arthur Kirkland wants me to keep dyeing the world England red? Sounds suspicious if you ask me... I'm gratified to meet another person who thinks he's not the weepy stereotypical female of their relationship! They're both ancient nations, dang it, and they're both badasses in their own special ways. America may have the strength, but England has the finesse and ruthlessness. I think they make a good pair, in fighting or otherwise. And I'm glad you like the a/ns and h/ns-I try to make them interesting!**

**Last Girl Standing****: Well, since you beg so nicely... very well. But you better pay me in thin mints! :| America's not the only one who likes cookies, you know!**

**vesana****: I can't help it if Ukraine the country is famous for large plains, steppes, and plateaus and Ukraine the nation-person is famous for large, er, yeah. It was just too good to resist for this Monty Python lover! Speaking of that, I read the email, and though snopes says it wasn't Cleese, it was still funny! Though I think they were confusing France's white flag factories with Italy's ;) And there's actually a bit about tea and hamburger deprivation in this chapter. You'll see. Is it sad I feel like I know how to write England better than my own country? I'm glad you think I got the loveable git down all right-he can be a slippery bugger when he wants. Must be all that grease.**

**One of the things I **_**love**_** to do in writing is suddenly changing everything to look at an idea from a different, unexpected angle and be very sneaky about it. Like there. After all, I didn't say at the end of the WWI chapter, "Yet it was not the last time America saw Red England," I said "Yet it was not the last time America saw England in red." So I never **_**quite **_**lied, just allowed you to form your own opinions. *Danger! Cockburn-esque levels of smug!***

**eyebox****: *takes a bow* Thank you, thank you! Er, be careful...as an American, my hamburger grease gets all over my writing, so it may cause you to break out in acne if you smear it all over your— Well. Too late now. I- I'm glad you like it...? And history is way more awesome with Alfreds all over it! If you feel like it, some fanart for this fic would be most appreciated. :D?**

**mofalle****: I'm glad you're enjoying it—and I loved learning about history to write this. Why aren't we taught in school about history with Hetalia? These days I can place all the countries (except the Balkans) on a map of Europe, and I never used to be able to do anything like it! Not to mention all the rest of the history…sigh. And they wonder why kids don't do well in school.**

**bookwormally****: Ah, but what if it was Hetalia class? They it wouldn't be silly! (oh wait yes it would be but it would be enjoyably and educationally silly so there). I for one love writing the contradictions evident between the two characters, the way they both can act utterly uncaring yet deep down feel far too much for each other, the way centuries pass and the world changes yet they stay true to their inner personalities and connections with each other. Hmmm, but perhaps no one's ever let England near a kitchen long enough to discover that his baking's good? You may have an idea there… Historical accuracy high five all around! To me it just makes everything seem more **_**real**_**, y'know? More **_**present**_** than you can get with just fiction.**

**xXYoraXx****: I swear, the man never blinks! And if I did my job right, you should certainly be entertained in one way or another ;)**

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><p>The end of World War II finally came and the U.K. was left crippled by debt and the mandated loss of its colonies, shell-shocked and reeling from the sheer devastation of the fighting. His people slowly healed, and the former British Empire turned to embroidery instead of brawling, obscenities instead of kidney stabs, tea instead of rum…and green sweater vests and smart suits instead of red anything.<p>

Modern England left the past locked away in dusty museums and the scars crisscrossing his body. These days, seeing him glaring across a conference table or strangling France inspired more amusement than fear. He left his red years long behind, and the world began to forget he had ever been anything other than a rainy little island stuffily drinking tea and swearing colorfully at America.

And then he picked up that red jumpsuit and the past slapped them all in the face.

Did England truly know what he became when he wore red? Did he feel the change like a switch thrown in his soul? _Surely_ he had known what he released with that color and picked those clothes intentionally. America supposed in the face of such enemies as these Pictonians they needed every advantage possible, even up to unleashing Red England.

What had England felt when he chose to wear the red jumpsuit? Did the scarlet cloth smell to him of empire, of salt seas and tropical breezes, of cotton and coffee and a never-setting sun? Of sweat and blood and other people's tears?

It was just a good thing he hadn't worn the crimson cloak too, or Earth would very rapidly have had the extinction of an entire alien species on its head.

~o0O0o~

Oh yeah. Aliens. America blinked and came back to himself. He was still staring awkwardly at England by the door, and though only a short amount of time seemed to have passed for all the history his mind had whipped through, any longer without a characteristic Americaism and they might begin to suspect he was affected by the sight or something. As if. Obnoxious America to the rescue!

"Ahahaha!" America winced mentally when his voiced cracked slightly on the last syllable. "You look like a race car driver, England!" He gave England his best cheesy smolder and two thumbs up. "You can drive my car anytime."

As soon as the words danced merrily out of his mouth, America realized what a terrible mistake he made. Because Red England never blushed and sputtered incoherently at innuendo not coming from France like normal England did. Oh no.

England's smirk broadened into a feral grin and he began eyeing America thoughtfully, long, shameless, savoring looks from his boots to Nantucket. America could distantly hear the strains of Darth Vader's _Imperial March _as England sauntered a few long strides toward him, braced his hands on the table between them and leaned forward. America involuntarily swayed back from the advancing nation, cursing himself for his weakness. This was _not _the right way to act around Red England with that glint in his eye. Red England loved domination of any form…but unfortunately he also got off on facing resistance and crushing it, so America was screwed either way.

England was far, far too close for comfort at this point, green eyes burning against the sullen red backdrop of his collar just a few inches away from America's own. He was a century out of practice when it came to Red England, unprepared and thrown off-balance by his abrupt resurrection. America could only swallow dryly and hope his eyes didn't show too much of his terror.

"America…as a gentleman, I would be happy to…_oblige_ you in that department," England purred, seductive and honeyed and above all _dangerous_, hot breath washing against America's face, "I'm sure it would be quite enjoyable for at least one of us."

And he suddenly seized America's chin in an bruising grip, forcibly tilted his head back and forth as England scrutinized his face as he would a new painting he was going to be adding to his collection, whether the current owner wished it or not. Though he knew his strength was far beyond England's, America was too shocked to pull away. When was the last time England had touched him like _that_? Had he _ever_ done so?

A snort interrupted England's creepy appraisal. "Please, _Angleterre_.You're only a gentleman when it suits you." France seemed to have regained his balance with his usual cat-like reflexes, and America was never so glad to hear that annoying accent in his life. He made a mental note to lower tariffs against French goods after all this was over—whether he intended to help or not, he had just proven how valuable an ally France was to the United States.

England spun to his ancient enemy, releasing America with a force that nearly slammed him to the table. "Ah, perfidious France. You were so uncharacteristically silent and bland I didn't see you there." England apparently decided France was less than a threat to him, or at least wished to pretend he thought that, because out of nowhere he pulled a long knife and, as he leaned against the wall with an attitude last seen in the 70s with fourteen piercings and leather pants, began to trim his nails.

Seemingly oblivious—or at least covered with so much scar tissue when it came to Red England that he was impervious to anything he might do—France responded without hesitation.

"_Rosbif_, there is no one, human or alien, that can make _me_ bland. You've been trying for millennia and even the sheer quantity of mediocrity that is your insipid food and tasteless clothing has not been able to make me even slightly as dull as you." He dramatically swept his own manicured hand through silky locks in demonstration.

An undignified squeak erupted from France's mouth as he abruptly found a thrown knife quivering in the wall by his head. A few forlorn strands of his hair floated gently to the ground as he stared in horror.

"MY HAIR!"

England already had another knife in his hand and a smug comeback falling off his lips when China cut in. "Stop this nonsense, you two. Shockingly, we have a problem that can't be solved with your endless squabbling." In thanks America resolved to actually start paying back his debt sometime soon. The man's scolding could be very useful at times.

England just looked at China for a moment, eyes hooded, before a lazy sneer smeared onto his face. "Of course, China. How thoughtless of me." His words were polite, yet his expression was anything but. It showed quite clearly his opinion on being interrupted and the consequences of such an action, especially when done by a nation he had last seen on his knees before him. America could only hope after they booted these aliens off their planet they'd manage to get England out of those red clothes before the United Kingdom was the aggressor against China in World War Three.

France, for his part, clutched his now trimmed hair, looking as though he couldn't quite decide whether to cry or get _la Guillotine_ out of storage to use on a certain Englishman.

Time for Obnoxious America to come to the rescue again!

"Yeah, we don't have time for you fuddy-duddy old guys to argue about who's lamer, we all know you're equally lame. We've gotta go kick some serious Pictonian butt! And I've got the perfect idea, too—we've just gotta make these people-shaped Jell-O mold things and put an alien in each one—y'see, they look really blobby and soft so if we sorta squished them into a human shape, then they'd be human again! Ahahahaha!"

As everyone groaned, America smiled widely. He could feel the pendulum of their usual dynamic swinging back into safe territory. Now just to keep it there…

"Ew! That sounds really gross, Germany; I didn't know aliens were like ricotta cheese!" As usual, Italy's first thought was for his stomach. Not that America had any room to talk—what with the world being taken over and all, he hadn't been able to find any hamburgers that weren't white and droopy. He hadn't had one in at least four hours now and it was making him hallucinate the smell of grease and meat; he wondered how normal England would have been faring without his beloved tea. As it was, his eyebrows were beginning to twitch dangerously.

Germany rubbed his temples. "Do we have any other ideas? Ones that actually might work?"

America's indignant "Hey!" goes ignored and a glum silence falls over the group.

"_Scheiße_. Looks like turning into Pictonians is a fate we will all share now." Germany said with a sigh.

But as he watched France begin to babble again about blandness and their conversation yet again devolve into petty bickering and minor violence, America couldn't help but think that with the terrifying might of Red England on their side, their cause might not be quite as hopeless as they thought.

At that moment, England glanced over and caught his eye, and in those cruel green depths he could see reflected there the laughter and flame and mud and bullets, the thrill of battle and the trickle of tears, the vicious twist of a blade and a grasping, bloodied hand in the purest white glove, and above all else draped the burning crimson of Red England.

As if he knew what America saw, England smiled broadly, another smirk without mirth. _Remember me?_ it seemed to say, _I can do it all again. Just you wait, little America. Oh the fun we will have…_

Well, whatever else you might say about the man, he certainly knew how to change the game.

And America smiled back.

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><p><strong>With Germany's line, we are brought back into the actual storyline of <strong>_**Paint It, White.**_

**On why Red England was even more Red-England-y than usual: It's been a while since he was let out of his closet, let's put it that way. And since England hasn't gotten any for a while, either, well…**

**And why did Red England aggressively come on to America when he had never done so before: In my head!canon England never really started seeing America as an adult, and beyond that an **_**attractive**_** adult until their experiences in the World Wars (or, possibly, when he **_**did **_**manage to extract from Canada what happened to America during his Civil War). No, I'll not be having any of that squicky England-wanting-to-get-it-on-with-pre-revolutionary-America nonsense. So this is the first time Red England has met America as someone England (whether he admits it or not) considers attractive and an acceptable mate. Where England reacts to such an attraction by being even more ornery than usual and prone to blushing, Red England simply sees something it likes the look of and takes it. Not that America will ever figure all this out and come to the logical conclusion that England likes him. The denseness of the man-! **

**None of that America-revolting-because-he-wants-to-become-England's-equal-so-he-can-court-him nonsense, either. I think that particular theory is complete rot. If you love someone, even if it is with an Oedipus complex, you don't hurt them like that. Never like that.**

**Everything in the last sentence of the first paragraph, to be accurate, must be appended with "...when not drunk or when France has not made him pissed." Considering the varying meanings of "pissed" on either side of the Pond, and that may seem redundant!**

**Yes, I know Darth Vader never aggressively came on to anyone, but the idea was too delightful to pass up! And with America's geeky proclivities, of **_**course**_** that's what he'd think of. Thanks to the individual known only as France for the idea.**

**MINISCULE HISTORICAL NOTES**

"**perfidious France"****: a mockery of one of France's own terms for England. The phrase "La Perfide Angleterre" has been around since at least the 13th century. The more common form, "La Perfide Albion" has been a stock expression since the 1800s. It has spread to other languages and cultures, including Italian, Spanish, Portugeuse, and Greek, and in Ireland and Argentina. These days it's used more humorously than anything else, but during WWII in Italy it was Serious Business. "Perfidious" and its cognate in French has connotations of duplicity, treachery, and infidelity (in the strictly political sense, but still, **_**France **_**calling other people adulterous? heheheh). On their side, the British have called their dear neighbors "Treacherous France" since at least when it was written in Shakespeare's **_**The Life and Death of The Lord Cromwell**_**.**

**British and French readers: Am I correct in this? The Internet is not always truthful...  
><strong>

**"...with an attitude last seen in the 70s"****: The 1970s, of course. England's infamous punk phase.**

_**la Guillotine**_** and cut hair:**** I hope you enjoyed the little incident with France's hair, but there's a bit more to the back story than just him lamenting the loss of his beautiful tresses.**

**Before being executed during the French Revolution, '**_**le toilette du condamne**_**' was done to some of the victims. In this, their hair was cut short so as not to impede the efficiency of **_**la Guillotine**_**. It takes longer if you have to take two swipes to get through the thick hair to take the head all the way off, after all.**

**Let's just say France has a **_**thing**_** for people cutting his hair. And Red England is enough of a bastard to take advantage of it. If you ask him, he'll say France was asking for it, flaunting his hair like that. I suppose he still hasn't forgiven him for the whole "France, cut my long hair to make it look pretty [like yours]" thing.**

**After the Reign of Terror, the giddy, relieved atmosphere gave birth to many frivolous yet gruesome fashions and pastimes. You could think of it as the hysterical laughter one can have after witnessing a tragedy. One of the (relatively sane, look this stuff up! —but be careful, some arefictional) fashions among both men and women was to have their hair cut very short and choppy to mimic **_**le toilette du condamne**_**.**

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><p>Have you noticed I have a bit of a thing for smells? Er…that didn't come out right.<p>

Red England to me has moved beyond head!canon and into actual canon. He's real. I swear. So never let England near a kitchen, alcohol, or a certain shade of clothing if you value your life.

Well, anyway, I hope you've enjoyed Red England! I know I've loved writing it, and in fact this concept managed to keep me focused and writing longer than anything has before! It was actually kind of scary how it's absorbed my life over the last month. Now I have empty-nest syndrome D:

And happily in the process of writing this many new, intriguing ideas have spawned like squirming maggots from my festering brain! Delightful imagery, I'm sure. But nevertheless, I have a feeling they won't be letting me alone until I pin them down properly, so watch out for more fics in the future from Punmaster Extraordinaire.

Thanks, all, and goodnight!


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